Page 172 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The silence stretches between us, heavy and raw.

And for the first time after telling that story, it doesn’t feel like judgment hanging there.

It feels like mourning.

For all the women like my mom.

For all the times the system failed and someone like me was born into the wreckage.

Before either of us can figure out what to say next, the food arrives.

Dim sum spreads across the table like a parade of tiny, steaming miracles.

Soup dumplings glistening with broth, shrimp har gow wrapped in translucent rice paper, crispy pork buns split open to reveal sticky-sweet centers.

It’s a feast.

A feast of everything I love and didn’t realize I was starving for.

I blink down at it, thrown off balance by the absurd generosity of it all—by the way Declan somehow ordered exactly what I would have picked if my brain hadn’t been chewing on knives and blood and broken memories.

I set the tea down, my hands still trembling faintly as I position my chopsticks.

The pork bun is soft and warm and perfect.

I pop it into my mouth, savoring the rich burst of meat and scallion, letting the world blur at the edges just for a second.

I don’t want to sit in the heavy silence between us. Not after everything I said.

So I pick up the verbal equivalent of a flamethrower and casually light it.

“Why don’t you want a partner?” I ask, reaching for another dumpling.

Declan stiffens instantly, eyes narrowing like he smelled a trap and is already plotting which limb he’s willing to sacrifice to escape.

He doesn’t answer.

Which is exactly why I push harder.

“You asked me something personal,” I say sweetly, stuffing a piece of crispy pork bun into my mouth like an adorable threat. “It’s only fair you answer, too. Or”—I pause dramatically, holding the steaming dumpling aloft—“face the soup dumpling consequences.”

He glares.

I raise an eyebrow.

The bun wobbles dangerously between my chopsticks.

Finally, with a grunt that sounds like it physically pains him, he scrubs a hand over his face.

“My best friend,” he mutters, “was my partner.”

He pauses, jaw ticking, and I get a bad feeling about this. I regret asking and pushing—but also, he’s opening up. So there’s no way I’m stopping now.

“He slept with my fiancée.”

The words drop between us like a lead weight—heavy and sharp.

I blink, stunned.

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