The doorbell chimed at 2:47 p.m., two minutes early, and Taehyung’s pulse kicked against her clavicle.

She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror—a habit she’d perfected during three years of marriage to a man who stopped noticing. The silk robe was dove-gray, cinched loosely, hem grazing mid-thigh. Underneath, only a black lace triangle that she’d bought six weeks ago and never found the courage to wear for Minho. He preferred flannel. Safety. Missionary with the lights off.