The dinner table is set with meticulous care—crystal glasses catching the low golden light, silverware aligned like soldiers awaiting command, white roses arranged in a low porcelain centerpiece, their petals dewy and fragrant. The restaurant hums around us, a soft murmur of distant conversations and clinking glass, but at our table, the silence is heavier. Thicker.
I sit with my arms crossed over my chest, leaning back in the chair, my spine pressed against the velvet upholstery. My eyes are fixed on Silas.
He sits across from me like a bird caught in a gilded cage.
He doesn't lift his gaze. His hands rest in his lap, fingers fumbling with each other—twisting, untwisting, twisting again—nervously tugging at the silk of his shirt.
My jacket drapes over his shoulders, too large for him, swallowing his frame. It covers his back completely, hiding the impossible bare skin I saw when he walked ahead of me.
