I stepped into the kitchen, only to find her already there, seated on one of the bar stools with a book in hand. She glanced up briefly—only to glare at me. I met her gaze with equal hostility before turning my attention elsewhere.

The metallic scent of dried blood clung to my shirt, and I didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered on the stains before she rolled them and returned to her reading, clearly unimpressed and wholly uninterested. I didn’t bother to explain. She never asked.

I made my way to the pantry, scanning the shelves for what I needed. After a moment, I let out a quiet sigh, irritated.

“Do you know where the chips are?”

I asked, my voice cold, eyes fixed firmly on the shelf in front of me. I didn’t bother turning around. I already knew the look on her face.