Her eyes flick to me briefly, curiously. I look away.
When dinner finally ends, I clear plates too quickly, stack them with unnecessary precision, give myself tasks that require movement. Anything to avoid the moment when the house quiets and the questions begin.
As soon as the dishes are done, I grab my jacket.
“I’m going to check the backyard,” I said, already moving.
No one stops me.
The night air hits my face like relief. Cool. Damp. Crickets sing from somewhere beyond the fence, steady and rhythmic, like they’ve been rehearsing for this performance.
I stand in the dark, hands shoved into my pockets, staring up at the stars. They’re faint tonight, dulled by cloud cover, but still there if you know where to look.
I count breaths.
The back door opens behind me.
Light spills out, outlining a familiar shape.
“Ethan?”
I close my eyes briefly and exhale. “I’m here.”
She steps out onto the grass, pausing when the light disappears behind her and the darkness settles. I move without thinking, reaching for her hand.
“Careful,” I murmur. “Your eyes haven’t adjusted.”
Her fingers curl around mine instantly, trusting, warm.
That simple contact sends a shock straight through me.
We walk a few steps farther, toward the old porch swing tucked into the shadowed corner of the yard. We sit with space between us, not the careful distance of strangers, but the distance of people pretending they’re not on the edge of something.
The swing creaks softly beneath our weight.
The crickets keep singing.
Silence stretches.
Finally, she breaks it.
“What happened today?” she asks quietly.
I stare out at the dark yard, jaw tight. The truth presses hard against my teeth, sharp and dangerous.
I choose the version that is easy.
“He was talking shit about you.”
She’s quiet.
I risk a glance at her profile, the way the faint starlight traces the line of her nose, her cheek, her mouth. She looks calm. Thoughtful.
“And?” she prompts gently.
I frown. “That’s it.”
She turns to me then, brows knitting slightly. “That’s it?”
