Sage’s apartment smells like roasted tomatoes and simmering herbs when I walk in, the kind of smell that should be comforting but somehow isn’t. My bag digs into my shoulder, heavy with gear, and I let the door slam harder than I mean to.
She’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a loose knot. Pans clatter as she moves between the stove and counter, muttering under her breath. There’s already enough food to feed an army — containers lined up, lids stacked neatly beside them. She’s been stress-cooking again.
“Smells good.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She glances up but doesn’t smile. “Thanks.” Her tone is tight. Measured.
I watch her ladle soup into a container, the muscles in her arm flexing as she moves. She’s trying to act calm, but her jaw’s set, movements too precise. I can read tension — it’s the same look a teammate gets before a fight breaks out on the ice.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
That word again. It hits like a slap.
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. “You don’t look fine.”
Her laugh is quick and brittle. “Didn’t realize there’s a dress code for emotions.”
“Hey.” I keep my voice even. “I’m just asking.”
“Yeah, well, maybe stop assuming I need saving.”
That stops me cold. “I never said you did.”
She drops the ladle into the pot with a clatter. “You didn’t have to. The look says enough. The thank-yous. The pity.”
“Pity?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes flash. “Like I’m some charity case you feel sorry for because you’re stuck here.”
“Stuck here?” I blink. “You think that’s what this is?”
She crosses her arms, chin lifting. “Isn’t it?”
The air between us goes razor-sharp. I step closer, heat prickling under my skin. “You offered, Sage. I didn’t ask for special treatment.”
“I know.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I just—” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through. “I’m not your burden.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
The words hang there, harsh and final. For a second, neither of us breathes. The only sound is the simmering pot, bubbling over quietly like it’s listening.
I step back, heart hammering. “You know what? Fine.”
I grab my bag and toss it onto the couch with more force than necessary. The impact makes something on the coffee table rattle — maybe a remote, maybe the fragile calm we’ve been pretending to keep.
Sage turns back to the stove, shoulders stiff. “Dinner’s ready whenever you want it.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Didn’t ask.”
The bite in her voice makes my chest ache even as anger tries to take its place. I drop onto the couch, scrubbing my hands over my face, exhaustion finally catching up.
We’re silent — kitchen and living room, twenty feet apart, separated by everything we’re too proud to say.
