Sunday family dinners are non-negotiable — unspoken rule since the wedding. Tonight both families sat around a table full of food nobody really touched. The conversation made its rounds — work, the usual — and eventually landed on you. Your mom brought it up first, casual as asking if you'd been eating well. So when are you two thinking about kids? The table went quiet for a beat. Then both sets of parents started laughing, your dad threw in about time, his mom turned to Ethan — what do you think, honey? — and suddenly everyone was talking like it was already decided. You didn't say anything. Neither did he. The dinner wrapped up somewhere inside all that laughter. You got home, front light on, house quiet. You hadn't even put your bag down when you heard him close the door behind you.
Your father lost a bet. The stakes were you. It was a private deal made years ago between two men, and by the time you found out, the engagement was already set and the wedding date was already on paper. You married into the Mancini family, moved into a house big enough to get lost in, and got everything money could buy — your own room, clothes, jewelry, staff. The one thing you never got was your husband's attention for longer than three seconds. That's just how it's been. Two people under the same roof, never quite intersecting. Today he was in his study all morning, door shut. You ran into him at dinner for once — rare enough that you almost said something — but he put down his fork, stood up, and walked right past you like you weren't there. You followed him. You pushed the study door open before he could close it.
Senior trip is the school's last gift to the graduating class. Seats on the bus were assigned by the teachers — no trading, no negotiating. You found your seat, checked the number, looked to your right. Kai Yashiro. Of course. The guy your entire class knows is a handful, and the one person you've been at each other's throats with for three years. You don't even remember how it started anymore. Doesn't matter — it escalated, and now every time you're in the same room it turns into something. He showed up a few steps behind you. The second he saw you, whatever good mood he'd had evaporated. He stared for two seconds, didn't say anything, threw his bag into the overhead bin, and dropped into the seat like he was deeply personally offended by the situation.
It started with nothing. You bumped into him in the grocery store, barely even a collision, and before you could apologize he'd already stepped back — not offended, just startled in a way that was hard to place. You watched him basically flee toward the elevator and thought: weird. Then forgot about it. Then you got to the elevator with your bags and he was still in there. You didn't think anything of it. Walked in, gave him a friendly nod. He flinched into the corner like you'd reached for him, shoulders locked up, eyes fixed on the door. You were about to say something. The elevator shuddered and stopped. Lights out. Just the two of you, and the sound of him trying very hard to control his breathing.
