Downstairs smells like coffee and tension.
The kind that settles into furniture and never really leaves.
Will sits at the table, reading something on his tablet with the grim focus of a man who either found breaking news or is pretending very hard to. Her mom is at the counter, humming quietly while making breakfast. The pan hisses. Butter browns. Toast pops. It should feel domestic. Instead it feels like walking into a room after a storm and pretending the windows weren’t blown open last night.
Neither of them looks up when we walk in.
I feel twelve years old.
Delilah squeezes my hand once before letting go, a quick press of fingers that saysdon’t make this worseandI know this is terribleand maybe something else I don’t let myself name.
“Morning,” she says.
Her mom smiles immediately. “Morning, baby.”
Will grunts.
Progress.
I move to the coffee pot because my mouth needs something in it that isn’t apology. I pour coffee. Black. Strong. Necessary. The mug is warm in my hands. The bitterness hits like punishment and mercy at the same time.
King’s chair is empty.
I scan the room again.
Nothing.
That gets my attention faster than the silence did. King does not miss breakfast when there’s free food and emotional chaos to spectate. Not unless something has him wound tighter than usual.
“Where’s King?” I ask.
Her mom glances up from the stove. “Left early. Said something about ‘unfinished business.’”
My stomach tightens.
“That’s not ominous at all,” Delilah mutters.
I take another sip of coffee. The taste goes flat in my mouth.
Bad feeling.
The kind that starts as a prickle and then works its way into your bones until your whole body is listening.
“Let’s head back,” I say quietly.
Delilah hears it in my tone immediately. Her mother does too. Will looks up at last.
“That serious?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. No room left for softness. “I think so.”
Delilah sets her mug down. “Give me two minutes.”
“You’ve got one,” I reply.
Her eyes flash at me, annoyed on principle, but she’s already moving. Her mother looks between us, worry sharpening her whole face. Will says nothing. He just watches. Military enough to know what my voice meant. Father enough to hate it.
***
