Roast chicken with lemon and garlic sits on the table between them, the scent rising in gentle curls of steam.
The waitress has barely left when Henry notices it, his old favorite. He looks down at the glossy skin and the faint glisten of citrus and oil, and an involuntary smirk touches the edge of his mouth.
Of course Adam would choose this. Back then, it had been their routine meal, something they once ate almost every day until it felt like a private language of comfort and familiarity.
It isn't his favorite anymore. Tastes have shifted, life has shifted, but the memory still lingers in the smell and the sheen of the meat.
Against his own will, Henry picks up a fork. He takes one bite, then another, each chew grounding him in a past that feels both distant and uncomfortably close.
Across the table, Adam talks about small things... random, harmless topics that mean nothing and fill the air with a calm Henry does not trust.
