Daniel moved through the rest of dinner on instinct.
The pan hissed softly as he turned the heat down, stirring the sauce with slow, measured motions—as if keeping his hands busy was the only thing holding him together. The scent of tomatoes and basil filled the kitchen again, grounding and domestic—so painfully normal compared to the emotional wreckage scattered between them.
Marian sat at the small kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a glass of water she hadn’t touched. Her eyes followed him in silence. Every movement he made—the way his shoulders squared, the way he paused before reaching for the salt—felt loaded with meaning now. Five years of distance had taught her how to observe him without expecting anything. Being this close again was a different kind of torture.
When he
