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2 AM, both of us in sweats, the steady rhythm of wooden spoon against pot.

With Brandon, food always seemed like art that you want to watch for hours instead of pouring it down the drain.

“How’s work?” I ask.

“Fine. Yours?”

“Good.” This must be how Dr. Patel feels. One-word answers.

Brandon’s phone buzzes, and he checks it without hesitation, typing a response.

My stomach twists. Three months ago, he would have ignored any message during our dinners. Now, his attention drifts everywhere but to me.

Marcus returns with our wine, and Brandon barely registers as his glass is set before him, still focused on his phone.

“The risotto will be out shortly,” Marcus says, hovering uncertainly.

I force a smile. “Thank you.”

Another message lights up his screen, and he hunches over it, the blue glow softening his features, smoothing away the sharp edges I’ve grown used to these past months. He looks… lighter.

Maybe he’s better off without trying to fix me.

I sip my wine, letting the crisp bite ground me. “How’s Bash?”

“Good.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t ask about Blake.

I got what I wanted. We sit here like strangers performing a play neither of us wants to be in anymore.

“The board meeting went well?” I try again.

“Mm.” He finally sets his phone down, but his eyes are fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. “Everything’s proceeding as planned.”

The formal tone cuts deeper than outright hostility would. This polite stranger wearing Brandon’s face is somehow worse than anger or disappointment.

I take another, bigger, sip of wine. “That’s… good.”

I want to scream. Want to throw my wine in his stupidly perfect face. Want him to show any sign that this is affecting him like it’s affecting me. That he feels this gaping chasm between us as acutely as I do.

“I miss—” I miss you. I miss us. I miss how you used to drive me crazy with your overprotective bullshit. I miss feeling safe. I miss feeling anything at all. “I?—”

“Yes?”

Marcus appears with two steaming bowls, setting them down with practiced grace and saving me from disaster. The aroma hits me first, rich and creamy with hints of garlic and white wine. My mouth waters even as my stomach protests.

What a contradiction I am.

“Enjoy,” Marcus says, disappearing as silently as he arrived.

The risotto gleams under the soft lighting, studded with perfectly cooked shrimp and scallops. Brandon picks up his spoon, and I mirror him, trying to ignore how my hand trembles.

The first bite sits on my spoon.

“It’s not going to bite,” he says, his voice softer than it’s been all evening.

“You don’t know that.”

He chuckles, and it makes me smile myself.

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