The breakfast table felt like a minefield disguised as normalcy.
I sat across from Caleb again, the same spot that had become both torture and secret comfort. My ribs throbbed with every breath, the deep bruises hidden beneath my hoodie but impossible to ignore in the way I held myself. The team chatted around us—Riot recounting a ridiculous story from last night’s video games, Tank and Liam arguing over who got the last pancake—but the air between Caleb and me crackled with everything we couldn’t say.
His foot remained hooked around my ankle under the table, a small, hidden anchor. Every few seconds he would shift, the subtle pressure sending warmth racing up my leg. I kept my eyes on my plate, but I could feel his gaze on me—stormy grey, heavy with restraint and the memory of his body
