ISABELLA
Adrian had been home for two days. Two days of quiet footsteps. Gentle touches that felt like apologies he never voiced and days of him looking at me like he was memorizing me… and then looking away like he didn’t deserve to.
He wasn’t cold or angry. He was distant in the way a man is when he’s carrying something heavy and refuses to let anyone else touch it. And that was worse.
This morning, we were having breakfast together — something that almost never happened. Adrian was usually gone before dawn, swallowed by whatever world he refused to let me see, and he returned long after the sun had set, smelling like night air and exhaustion.
But today, it was just us.
The dining room felt too big for two people. The long table stretched between us like a negotiation line neither o
