NOLA
Rhett is late to breakfast. He is never late.
I am already seated at the long wooden dining table, my fingers tracing invisible patterns over the rim of my coffee cup as the steam curls into my face. The dining hall feels too big this morning, too quiet. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows, warming the polished floors and the cream walls, but the warmth does nothing for the cold crawling up my spine.
I hear his boots before I see him, heavy and slower than usual.
I look up.
He steps into the room looking… wrong.
His dark hair is slightly damp, like he has washed in a hurry. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, darker than yesterday, and his jaw is tight, lips pressed into a line that feels practiced. He is wearing a black long-sleeved shirt despite the warmth, sleeve
