He didn’t respond. He simply pushed the plate away, rejected, and took a single, grimacing sip of the coffee. The silence that stretched between us was dense, a physical weight that pressed against my chest. I tried to remember the last time we had shared a breakfast that wasn’t an exercise in tension. It felt like a lifetime ago, back before the late nights, the endless business trips, and the slow, agonizing death of his affection.

“Is Zariah up?” he asked, still addressing his phone.

“Yes. She is showering. She’ll be down in a minute.”