The morning light is too bright for what happened last night. You sit at the kitchen table, coffee going cold in your hands. Dessa is telling a story about work, no one laughed at her punch line Callum sits across from her — and somehow next to you — staring at the rim of his mug like it holds an answer. He hasn't looked at you once. Not since he slipped out of your room before dawn. Then his knee presses against yours under the table. Slow. Deliberate. He still doesn't look up. Dessa reaches over and squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back — and you have to decide right now what your face does with all of that.