She's asking you directly, eyes steady, chin lifted — the question hanging in the air like smoke. You already know the answer twisting in your gut, that specific heat that isn't quite jealousy and isn't quite desire but lives exactly between them.

Another man's presence is implied in every detail — the way her lipstick is slightly worn, the satisfied looseness in her posture, the knowing curve of her smile aimed straight at you.

So she asks again, quieter this time. Would you? Watch, wait, let it happen? Your throat tightens. Your silence is already an answer.