Dinner had been a blur of soft laughter and cinnamon-sweet warmth. My mother had insisted on serving extra slices of her apple pie, claiming that Taylor looked “too thin for someone who runs around all day.” He’d smiled and obliged, charming her easily, while I sat there trying not to stare at the faint curve of his grin or the way the golden kitchen light turned his eyes to something gentler.
It should’ve felt perfect, safe, simple, familiar.
But under the surface, there was something tugging at me, small and sharp, like a thread caught between my ribs. I didn’t notice it until much later, when the dishes were done, when Mom had kissed my forehead goodnight and Taylor followed me quietly up the stairs.
My room smelled faintly of vanilla and old paper. I sank onto the bed, exhaustion we
