The house is quiet in that fragile, early-morning way. Pale light slips through the kitchen curtains, dust floating in it like something suspended and undecided.
Ava stands at the stove, watching the bread turn gold.
She flips it too early or too late. It doesn’t matter.
Upstairs, the shower shuts off.
Her chest tightens automatically.
She smooths her hands over the counter and wipes away crumbs that aren’t there.
By the time he comes downstairs, he’s already dressed. Navy suit, crisp and controlled. The kind of man who looks like he has somewhere important to be.
He doesn’t look at her first. He looks at his watch.
“Morning,” she says.
Her voice sounds normal. She’s proud of that.
“Morning.”
She gestures toward the table. “Breakfast’s ready.”
There are eggs, toast, and the tea
