The cabin was still, the only sound the faint crackle of the dying candles all around. I sat at the table, my elbow resting on the edge as I swirled the last bit of wine in my glass. The once-cheerful flowers in the vase seemed to droop slightly, and the candles had burned dreadfully low, their wax pooling on the table.
I glanced at the clock on the wall—11:47 p.m. Sawyer still hadn’t come home.
My initial excitement had turned to confusion, then worry, and finally, a quiet ache of disappointment. I had tried to call him, but my messages had gone unanswered. I told herself over and over that he was probably still with his sister, maybe caught up in something important. But as the hours stretched on, that reasoning felt less comforting and more like an excuse.
The tiramisu sat on t
