"We talked. She's fine."
"You were gone almost two hours. I texted you twice before you answered. And you came back with marks on your face." He stays on the couch. His voice is quiet. "What happened, Dante?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
Cole's jaw sets before the silence finishes taking shape. His eyes go flat. The warmth drains from his face.
"Everything about Maya concerns me," he says. "Everything about you concerns me. So when you come home from herapartment with a bruised lip and tell me nothing happened, I need you to understand what you're actually saying."
I hold his eyes. He holds mine.
"Okay," he says. His voice has no warmth left in it.
He picks up his phone. Unlocks it. Types something.
"I'm going for a walk," he says.
He stands. Pulls on his jacket. Walks past me without touching me. No hand on my shoulder. No fingers at the back of my neck. His body passes mine like I'm furniture. The front door opens and shuts.
The house is empty. Her taste is still in my mouth. Cole's hand never landed on my shoulder. He typed something on that phone before he left, and I don't know who received it.
Chapter 14
Cole
Something happened.
I came back from the walk at two in the morning, and the text I sent Maya before I left is still unanswered on my phone.
You okay?
Two words. Blue checkmarks. Read. No response.
The house is dark. Dante's door is closed. I stand in the hallway between our rooms longer than I should, my hand loose at my side, my thumb still aching from typing a message she opened and ignored.
When I finally go into my room, the ceiling stares back until the light changes. Morning comes anyway.
Dante comes downstairs, and before he says a word, I clock the lower line of his shoulders, the slower reach for the mug, the half-second pause before the measured pour.
He moves through the kitchen with the same economy—coffee, pour, mug—but none of it sits right. The bruise on his lip has faded to dull purple at the corner where teeth caught skin. The mark on his jaw is still visible if you know where to look.
I know where to look.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning."
He keeps his eyes on the coffee. Last night his avoidance was defensive, all turned shoulders and answers clipped too fast. This morning his eyes stay there, his shoulders stay square, and every answer arrives with room around it.
"Sleep okay?"
"Four hours."
At least he's honest about that.
I drink my coffee. He drinks his. The mugs click softly against the counter, and the cabinet behind him still has Barry's Irish Breakfast on a shelf I stocked myself.
I leave first. His Econ isn't until nine.
