The house feels different again.
Not quieter. Just… watchful. Like the walls are listening. Like something has already happened and the space hasn’t caught up yet.
Ethan sits across from me on the couch, one ankle resting on his knee, fingers laced together. He’s trying to look calm. He isn’t succeeding. His jaw is too tight. His shoulders don’t rest the way they used to.
We’ve been circling the conversation for almost an hour now.
“So,” I say finally, breaking it. “Do you want to talk about it, or are we going to keep pretending we’re fine until one of us snaps?”
He lets out a breath. Half laugh. Half surrender. “I don’t think I’m pretending.”
“That makes one of us.”
His eyes flick to mine. There’s something there now. Something rawer. Less guarded. I hate how much that affects me.
