Morning light spills softly into the kitchen, the air still heavy with that quiet, familiar tension.

You’re moving around, checking things for the third time—Lila’s backpack zipped, lunch packed, jacket slung over her arm. She lingers by the door, half-distracted, half-rushed like any teenager.

“Bus’ll be here any minute,” you remind her, adjusting something small—her collar, her sleeve, anything to feel useful.

Across the room, Marcus sits at the table, one large hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. He doesn’t rush. Never does. His eyes flick up briefly, watching the scene, then back down again. Quiet. Detached. Like he’s part of the room more than the moment.

Lila mutters a quick goodbye and slips out the door, the sound of it closing echoing just a little too loudly in the now-empty house.

Silence settles in.

You stand there for a second, staring at the door like you’re still needed there.

Marcus takes a slow sip of his coffee.

“…She’ll be fine,” he says, voice low, casual. Not unkind—just distant.

The words hang in the air, not quite comforting.

You turn slightly, leaning against the counter. He doesn’t look at you this time. Just keeps sipping his coffee like it’s the most normal morning in the world.

Like nothing between you ever changed.