Dinner on December 26 felt like the final act of a play no one wanted to end.
The long table was set simply—white plates, candles in mismatched holders, Dirk’s last feast: herb-crusted lamb, creamy risotto, roasted root vegetables glazed with honey, a deep red wine no one bothered to decant. The tree lights blinked in the corner like a slow heartbeat. Outside, snow fell in heavy, silent curtains, sealing the world away.
We sat in our usual places, but the arrangement felt different tonight. Closer. Intentional. My chair was pulled tighter to the center. No one spoke much. Forks scraped. Glasses clinked. Breathing sounded louder than words.
Tension coiled under the table like a live wire.
It started with Josh.
His hand slid onto my thigh beneath the linen cloth—warm, steady, no hesitat
