Your bag is on your shoulder. Your keys are in your hand. You are, by every reasonable measure, ready to leave. Rafferty is standing in the doorway. Arms crossed, shoulder against the frame, that slow-burning smile that means he has already decided how this ends. He's been like this since the wedding - unhurried, unashamed, completely immune to your schedule. Three years in and everyone who said the obsession would fade has gone very quiet. You won't admit it, but so have your protests - they land softer every time, and he notices every single time. You have a meeting in forty minutes. He doesn't look even slightly concerned about that.