Breakfast was the kind of quiet that pressed in.
Not the soft, familiar silence they sometimes shared over morning routines—this was heavier, deliberate.
Every clink of a spoon, every turn of a phone screen felt loud because neither of them was willing to break it first.
Ethan sat across from Gabriel, coffee cooling between his palms, gaze fixed on the wood grain of the table.
Gabriel ate methodically, scrolled, paused to read something, set the phone down.
Reached for his mug. The motions were calm, unhurried.
Ethan watched him through lowered lashes.
He wasn't angry at Gabriel—not really.
The fight had scorched most of the real anger away; the apology had swept the ashes.
What lingered was more like a deep bruise: sore when touched, impossible to ignore. Gabriel hadn't betrayed him.
He simply existed on the side of logic, of duty, of your father loves you, Ethan, grief isn't linear, Ethan, be the bigger person—and Ethan wasn't ready to be bigger.
