The illusion of normalcy stretched brittle as spun glass.
From behind the bar, Arden saw the shift in Gideon’s posture. The way he looked at his drink a second too late.
Anyone else might’ve missed it.
But she felt it.
Like pressure before a storm.
A war fought in silence. Formality as armor.
No blood. But the wounds were fresh.
When the Blackwells finally departed, the room exhaled.
It wasn’t relief.
Just release.
Their absence wasn’t escape.
It was an echo.
Arden resumed her routine—wiping counters, replacing bottles—comfortable repetition.
But her thoughts spun.
Their eyes. Their words.
All sharp-edged.
All designed to draw blood without a blade.
It wasn’t an emotion pressing against her chest. Not yet. Just weight, dense and unrelenting.
The quiet that followed wasn’t peace. It felt suspended, as if the air itself was waiting.
Gideon approached the bar,slower than usual, every step weighted.
He stopped just short, one hand anchoring on the counter; the other curling at his hip, restless.
His expression shadowed. His control dimmed.
“You held your ground.”
His voice was low. Even.
But something was layered beneath it.
Pride?
She exhaled. A half-smile ghosted her lips. “They’re… a lot.”
But he didn’t deflect.
Didn’t offer comfort.
Just truth. Simple. Stark.
