She studies me. Reading the exhaustion, the tension, whatever I’m not hiding well enough. Then rounds the corner and comes to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her, and for a moment the knot in my chest loosens.
Wyatt moves into the kitchen, starts pulling things from the fridge. Creating normalcy through motion.
“You hungry?” he asks me.
I’m not. But I say yes anyway because that’s what you do. You sit at the table, eat food you don’t taste, pretend everything’s fine.
Nina and I part and head to the table. She sits across from me. Nikita appears from somewhere, jumps in her lap. The cat’s presence seems to give Nina something to do with her hands.
“Tomorrow,” she says. “Are we still going?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
No. “I will be.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. She knows I’m lying. But she doesn’t push.
“What time?” she asks instead.
“Dinner’s at six, right?”
She nods. “I told them we’d be there around five-thirty.”
Early enough to observe security transition, late enough not to seem overeager. Whether she chose that timing deliberately or it just worked out that way, I don’t know.
Professional distance. Operational language. It’s easier than admitting I’m counting down the hours until I have to sit across from Vicente and pretend he doesn’t still own parts of me I can’t get back.
Nina nods slowly. “Callie texted. Asked if we need a ride. I told her we’d drive ourselves.”
“Good.”
More silence. Wyatt plates food—sandwiches, simple and quick. Sets them in front of us.
We eat. Or Nina and Wyatt eat. I move food around my plate and try not to think about how this is supposed to be the easy part.
After, Nina goes to rest. She’s still recovering, still needs more sleep than usual. Wyatt starts cleaning up.
I should help. Should be present, attentive, all the things Tatiana called me out for not being.
Instead I stand by the window, looking out at Nina’s small backyard, and feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down.
Wyatt comes up behind me, standing close.
“You should stay tonight.” Wyatt’s voice is low.
“I know.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “What you told me yesterday. About Vicente. That took a lot.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes how I understand what you’re dealing with.”
I turn to face him. He’s standing too close—close enough that I can see the concern in his eyes, the care he’s trying not to make too obvious.
The tension that’s been building for three days shifts, cracks, the fear and shame and want all tangled together.
