*Gabriel*
The rum burns on the way down, but I barely taste it. I sit hunched at a corner table in the tavern, the lamplight low, casting gold across the wood. The place stinks of tobacco and brine, and I welcome the sound of laughter, dice clattering, chairs scraping on the floor. It’s loud enough to drown out the voice in my head that keeps saying her name.
Sabrina. Damn it all, I hate arguing with her.
It wasn’t even a true disagreement. There was no shouting, and she barely said a word. That’s what made it worse. I asked for honesty, for something, anything—and she looked at me like she wanted to tell me, but then stayed silent. As though I hadn’t earned the truth. As though I wasn’t worth it.
I slam my mug down, turning a few heads, but no one says anything.
What is she hiding?
