They weren’t even sitting next to each other.

That alone said enough.

Three chairs between them. Empty ones. Just like how Pedro felt the moment he stepped into the dining room and saw his lover not meeting his eyes. They used to sit close—knees brushing, little jokes exchanged under their breath. Now, it was just cold. Heavy. Like walking into a scene you already knew the ending to.

Pedro took his seat in silence. The clinking of utensils from the others at the table didn’t help. If anything, it made the distance scream louder.

He had fucked up. No excuses. The kiss with his co-star during the live interview—he let it happen. It was supposed to be a joke, a PR stunt. But when she leaned in with a full-on French kiss, he matched her. Laughed. Played along. Just to please the cameras. And maybe that was the moment something cracked.

He didn’t call after. Didn’t explain. Didn’t even flinch when it aired. But when he came home and saw the silence—that look in their eyes—he realized he should’ve.

Pedro finally cleared his throat, not even trying to hide how uncomfortable he was. He looked straight at them, voice low.

“Can you pass the salt?”