"Cole chose the night. He chose the house."
"And I chose to sit on the counter. Reached for him. Said the words. You want to blame Cole's choices because it's easier than admitting I wanted it. Easier than admitting I've wanted it since I was seventeen."
Since I was seventeen.The number lands before the sentence finishes.
Seventeen. Before college. Before the draft. Before I existed in their world. She wanted Cole while I was in Milan getting pierced, and that history predates every room I have ever stood in with either of them.
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're telling yourself Cole manipulated the moment because that lets you put my agency in his hands and your feelings at his feet. But nobody manipulated me off that counter, Dante. I climbed off it myself."
My teeth ache. Across my back, my shoulders lock high and tight, and I cannot force them down.
"And while we're naming what happened," she says, "let's talk about your apartment. Three weeks ago. Your mouth on me. Cole sending you to check on me. You came home with marks on your jaw and told him nothing. You denied it to his face. At least Cole had the honesty to let his body tell the truth the next morning."
My jaw locks. Behind me, the counter waits. My hands find the edge.
"You did it first," she says. "With me. Without telling him. And you're standing in this kitchen treating Cole like he betrayed you when you set the precedent."
My grip tightens on the counter until the edge bites into my palms.
"Go back to the den," I say. The words come out quieter than I intend.
"I'm going back to the den because I have a story to file. Because I choose to. And when you're ready to talk about this like an adult instead of an economic sanction, I'll be in the den."
She turns, then stops in the doorway.
"That thing you do," she says. "Where you withdraw access until the people around you feel the absence and come to you on your terms. Where you remove the mugs and close the door and make the house feel empty so we understand what we'd be losing."
She holds my gaze.
"That's something my father used to do."
My breath catches. On the counter, my grip goes white. The kitchen tilts for half a second before I lock my jaw and hold my weight against the granite.
Her eyes stay on my face. She leaves it there.
"Goodnight, Maya," I say. Each syllable costs.
Then she walks through the doorway, close enough to the counter that her shoulder passes within an inch of my arm. She does not touch me. Her footsteps move to the den. The door closes.
I stand in the kitchen with both hands on the counter and the granite cold under my palms.
My phone buzzes. Marco. Dinner details. The restaurant. The reservation time. My father's preference for the corner table where both exits are visible.
I turn the phone face-down and leave it on the counter. Upstairs, the door closes behind me. The bed. The dark.
Later, at the end of the hall, Maya's breathing count starts.
Four in. Four hold. Four out.
I listen. Her rhythm moves through the wall, and my lungs start to follow before I lock them down.
Still, I hold. I let her count run without me.
Three cycles. Then quiet.
I don't hold mine.
