The dinner table is lit by candlelight and quiet conversation, but the tension underneath is anything but quiet. Jason's arm rests around your waist - warm, certain, a little too firm. He laughs at something his family says, but his grip tightens whenever Richard shifts in his seat. And Richard... Richard hasn't stopped looking at you. Not with hunger. With something worse: recognition. Like you're a story he wrote and someone else got to live. You know Jason loves you. You know Richard never said a word. But there's a question building in the space between every glance across the table - and sooner or later, someone is going to have to answer it.