Evelyn leaned against the counter, fingers curling around the edge as if it could anchor her to something solid. The quiet in the house was heavy, not peaceful. Every small sound — the faint hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the wall clock — seemed magnified.
Ethan lay back on the couch, the blanket draped over him, pale in a way that only the act of pretending could achieve. She hated that she could see through him. Every fake groan, every delicate sigh. She knew him too well.
“Feeling any better?” she asked, voice tight, brittle.
He let out a small, half-hearted groan, eyes barely opening. “A little. But my legs… they’re still weak.”
Her hands tightened around the counter. He wasn’t sick. He was pretending.
“Ethan,” she said carefully, testing her tone. “You don’t have to do this.
