A few chuckles ripple through the room. People start moving. Cousins drift toward the dining room, plates clatter, and chairs scrape. The press of bodies thins. Conversation spills into the hallway and kitchen.
Dinner is louder than I remembered.
Voices overlap. Silverware clinks. The air smells like roast chicken, garlic, and something buttery from the oven.
No one asks me much, but they still try to include me in the conversation. Mom checks in with Lena about work. Mateo talks sports. Ava and her husband swap stories about their kids.
I nod, smile, say things like “Some things never change” or “Wow, I didn’t know he was walking already”, but the words don’t feel like mine.
What really gets me is that while everyone else seems to be having the time of their lives, Sabine isn’t.
She barely speaks.
She’s sitting right beside me but feels a mile away, pushing food around on her plate. When she thinks no one’s looking, she checks her phone. Just a glance. But I notice the way her fingers tighten around it. The way her lips press flat.
I’ve been away for a while, but if I’ve gotten better at anything—aside from dreaming about things I shouldn’t and being an unapologetic asshole—it’s noticing the little things.
Sabine’s face doesn’t change. If you weren’t looking closely, you’d think she was just bored or zoning out. But I catch the micro-expressions.
She’s stressed. Definitely.
I take another bite, chewing slowly, trying to stay casual. I don’t say anything. Not yet. But I don’t look away either. I let a few minutes pass, let the conversation flow around us. Make sure I’m not imagining it.
Then, when I’m certain, I nudge her knee under the table. Just a small tap. Just enough to pull her focus.
She startles, barely, then glances at me sideways.
“What?”
I don’t answer. Just tilt my head toward where I know her phone must be—tucked in her lap, or under the table, wherever she’s been glancing.
Her eyes flick away. Her fingers tighten just a fraction. Then she exhales through her nose and reaches for her water glass. She takes a sip.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
Huh.
I didn’t even ask.
No raised eyebrow. No question. Just... a defense.
“Mhm,” I murmur, noncommittal. But I’m locked in now.
Across the table, Mom’s still caught up in Lena’s story. Something about a broken coffee machine and a mouse running across her desk. Background noise. No one’s looking our way.
I lean in, drop my voice.
“You checking the weather every five seconds,” I say, “or waiting for a bomb to go off?”
Her shoulder twitches. She doesn’t look at me.
“Drop it,” she mutters.
“Sure,” I say. “Right after you tell me what’s going on.”
No answer. Her jaw sets.
A beat passes.
