The morning after felt colder than it should have, not because the house lacked heat or because Noah had turned the thermostat up before going to bed but because the space between us was frozen. He was already in the kitchen when I came in, sleeves rolled to his forearms, coffee steaming in his mug. His back was to me, but I could feel the quiet wall he’d built overnight.
“Morning,” I said, my voice a shade too soft.
He didn’t look up right away, just poured another cup and set it on the counter for me. “Morning.”
It was polite, nothing more. The kind of tone you use with a neighbor, not someone you have shared your bed with.
Nova padded in behind me, still wearing her dinosaur pajamas, hair wild from sleep. She climbed into her chair and yawned, oblivious to the tension. I fixed her
