Riley:
The smell of coffee hit me before I even stepped into the kitchen. My stomach twisted at the sight of food on the table—eggs, toast, something that should’ve been comforting—but the memory of last night burned hotter than any hunger. I slid into the chair across from Cade, wrapping both hands around the mug he’d set down for me.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. Not yet. The taste of him, the feel of him, the words he’d said—they all crowded too close, and shame threaded through the restless ache still humming in my veins. Coffee was safer—bitter, grounding.
We ate—or rather, he ate, and I pretended. The silence stretched, too heavy, too sharp, every clink of his fork scraping against me. I knew he could feel it too, the weight of what we weren’t saying.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any
