The kitchen was quiet, the hum of the fridge the only sound between you. You sat at the table, fingers locked tightly around a chipped mug of coffee you weren’t drinking. Andy stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing outside.

He finally spoke—softly. "You haven’t said much since we got back from the courthouse."

You didn’t look up. "That’s because I don’t know what to say."

Andy turned then, walking over, his face lined with exhaustion—but there was still something steady in his eyes. That same unshakable calm he’d always carried around you. Like the world could split in two and he’d still be your anchor.

"You’re scared," he said.

You nodded once, tightly. "I keep trying to convince myself he didn’t do it," you whispered. "But the way he talks sometimes. The way he doesn’t react. It’s like... it doesn’t bother him."

Andy’s jaw clenched, but he sat across from you, his voice even. "He’s a teenager. They shut down. They hide everything under a blank face. I’ve seen it for years in court."