When we reach our new home, the kitchen smells faintly of herbs and bread. Ben motions toward the table, where a small dinner is laid out, quiet and simple. “Eat,” he says, almost a command, but gentle. “You need something in you.”
I glance at him, a small smile breaking through my grief, though it falters quickly. “I don’t feel hungry,” I admit.
“You need to eat anyway,” he insists, and I can’t argue with the firmness in his tone. I sink into the chair across from him, the dress still held against me like a shield.
Ben sits opposite me, cutting into the food in front of him with methodical calm. “We’ll get through this,” he says softly, though not looking directly at me. “Together.”
I nod, my throat tight again. “I hope so.”
The first bite tastes bland, but I chew anyway, forcing the
