TATE
ENZO HAD BEEN gone a day.
Not long, but long enough for the house to feel too big, too quiet, too damn strange without him in it. Breakfast tasted different without his presence somewhere in the background, that mix of danger and safety he carried like second skin. I told myself I didn’t care, that I wasn’t counting hours, but every time I caught myself glancing toward the stairs, I knew I was lying.
The dining room was filled with the smell of toast and coffee. Eli was already at the table, phone in hand, legs crossed, scrolling through something that made him smirk every few seconds. His green stained hair was damp, messy in a way that probably took effort, and the sunlight turned his skin gold. He looked soft, harmless but I knew he wasn’t.
“Morning,” he said, not looking up.
