The moment Kairo pushed back his chair and left the dining room, the air around me changed. It was subtle—just a ripple, a faint disturbance in the easy flow of conversation—but I felt it. Like a string being pulled too tightly, ready to snap.
I tried not to look at the empty seat across from me. Tried not to notice how the space seemed louder without him in it, how the woman beside him suddenly leaned back as if she'd lost her audience. My brother was too deep in conversation with one of the partners to notice anything unusual, and I forced a polite smile when someone asked me a question about work.
"Just busy these days," I answered smoothly, twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers. My voice sounded calm, even light, but inside my thoughts were scattered. Busy these days. That was an understatement. My days were full, packed from morning until late, but no amount of work filled the space he had carved in my mind.
I told myself I wouldn't think about him tonight. That I'd focus on family, on Elijah's endless introductions, on proving I could sit at this table and belong. Yet all I could think about was the way Kairo's jaw had tightened, the way his eyes had flicked toward me before he left.
It wasn't my imagination. Something was wrong. Or maybe it wasn't wrong at all—maybe it was just me, reading too much into every look, every silence, every pause between us.
The laughter around me swelled again, clinking glasses and cheerful chatter filling the air, but I felt apart from it, like I was sitting behind glass. I excused myself quietly, murmuring something about needing a little air, and slipped away from the table.
The hallway was dimmer, quieter, lined with the golden glow of sconces. My heels clicked softly against the polished floor as I walked, unsure where I was heading, only that my chest was too tight to sit still any longer.
Part of me wanted to turn back, to bury myself in conversation and pretend nothing had shifted. But another part—reckless, insistent—wanted to find him. To ask why he left. To ask if it had anything to do with me.
I stopped halfway down the hall, pressing a hand to my stomach as if I could steady the storm inside. This was madness. He was my brother's best friend. A man who carried his life like armor, who owed nothing to me.
And yet, when I closed my eyes, all I could see was the look in his when they met mine.