Eve
The dining room felt too big and too quiet, the clink of my fork against the plate the only sound breaking the silence. Ellen had outdone herself. She made roast chicken with herbs, buttery mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables glistening under the soft chandelier light, but the food tasted like ash in my mouth as I watched Sage across the table.
He wasn’t eating.
He was just… pushing things around. A piece of carrot was speared, lifted, and then dropped back onto the plate. The fork scraped idly against the porcelain, making slow circles in the potatoes that left little ridges like meaningless patterns. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed somewhere past the table, past me, like I wasn’t even there.
My stomach twisted. Was this because of what I’d said this morning? The words I’d force
