I sit on the couch, the glass of juice cool and solid in my hand, the straw moving lazily between my lips as I sip. The flavor is fresh and light—something Silas prepared with careful hands and quieter intentions. The sweetness lingers on my tongue, unhurried, like a half-remembered kiss.
My body is loose, one leg crossed over the other, my expression unreadable—the picture of unbothered calm.
Sum sits across from me, his eyes still carrying that wide, unblinking shock, accusing and brimming with questions he doesn't know how to ask.
Beside me, Silas sits with his head bowed, his hands resting neatly on his lap, his posture soft and yielding. The perfect mask of shy innocence—so perfect it almost makes me want to laugh.
The bouquet Sum brought lies on the table between us like an offering, its petals still fresh, and beside it, my silk tie rests coiled and silent—a quiet witness to whatever Sum thinks he saw.
