The next morning moves in a blur. We wake up early, rolling out of bed without a word and straight into our usual morning routine—except this time, neither of us are really there. Our bodies spar, our punches land, but our minds are somewhere else. Caden’s rhythm is off. Mine’s no better. He keeps glancing at the clock, his jaw tight the whole time. I feel the tension humming through him like static.
By the time we finish, our clothes are soaked with sweat and frustration, and the water pressure in the shower barely cuts through the fog of anxiety building in my chest. I don’t know how today will go—but I know we won’t be leaving without a fight.
On the way to the house, we drive in silence for a while. The kind of silence that feels full. Heavy. He holds my hand on the console, squeezin
