The cafeteria around them hummed with fluorescent indifference. Conversations drifted from distant tables, the clatter of utensils and trays formed a low domestic soundtrack, yet their corner of the room felt sealed off from the world. Victor sat impossibly straight, shoulders squared, as though slouching even an inch would let the truth Zane had spoken sink deeper. Zane sat across from him, leaning back but tense, his fingers tapping once against the side of the metal chair.
The aftermath of their argument hung in the air with the density of smoke. Neither man spoke. Neither needed to. The ground had shifted; both felt it.
Victor stared at his untouched coffee, watching the thin strand of steam disappear before it reached the stale cafeteria air. He wasn't seeing the cup. His mind was in Willow's room — in her shallow breaths, the way she murmured Zane's name in her half-sleep, the way she unconsciously leaned toward him despite the pain.
