The morning light isn’t gentle. It’s an interrogation lamp, high and severe, flattening the living room into a stage set. Olivia is already at the kitchen counter, both hands braced on the laminate like she’s steadying a rolling deck. Her hair is up, but unevenly, and the sweatshirt hangs on her shoulders the way it does after a night spent twisting against the sheets. She is in the act of doing something—pouring a measured line of milk into her coffee, but so slowly it looks like she’s willing herself not to move at all.
Ethan stands in the bedroom doorway, watching her watch the window. She doesn’t notice him at first. He catalogues the facts: her knees pressed tight together, heel tapping an arrhythmic Morse code on the tile, the faint purple undereye bruises that never used to last mo
