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He probably hasn’t given me a single thought since the moment he walked out.
“Come eat,” Sara says once they finish setting all the dishes on the table.
Even though they have a full staff for everything, the moms always cook, always set the table themselves, always insist on being the ones to take care of everything—even the cleaning.
When we finally sit down, the four parents remain at the kitchen island, leaning casually against it, watching us with warm, attentive expressions.
“Son, do you want to eat too?” John suddenly asks.
We all turn toward him, instinctively following his gaze to the stairs.
And then… the air leaves my lungs with force.
Halfway down, dressed in black sweatpants, a plain white T-shirt, barefoot, like he just walked out of a life that has nothing to do with the rest of us, is Ethan.
I freeze, my throat constricting as I swallow, the reaction immediate, instinctive.
Around me, the others break into chuckles, voices overlapping, chairs scraping as some of them get up to greet him—but all of it feels distant, muffled.
“Weren’t you supposed to come tomorrow?” Nick asks, pulling him into a quick, familiar hug.
“When I talked to you earlier, you didn’t say where you were,” Colt adds, amused.
“I was just about to text you a picture of this dinner,” Sierra says, beaming as she wraps her arms around him. “I’m happy you made it early, Ethan.”
She hasn’t seen him either since that night. I know that, because she stayed in London with me.
She tried to bring it up a few times—tried to ask what really happened between us—but every single time, I shut it down before I could even begin.
There’s nothing left to say.
It’s over.
Still holding Sierra with one arm, Ethan greets the others with brief, half-hugs before guiding her toward the table, her arms still loosely wrapped around him.
“I missed you too, Ser,” he says, a quiet laugh in his voice.
God, how I missed it.
When they reach the table, she slips into her seat between me and Nick, while Ethan circles around to the opposite side, taking the chair next to Colt.
I keep eating—or at least pretending to—though I can’t taste anything anymore, my appetite gone completely.
I don’t look at him.
He didn’t try to greet me, didn’t even acknowledge me, and I understand the message clearly.
This is how it’s going to be from now on.
Silence.
Distance.
Nothing.
My gaze stays fixed on my plate as I try to decide what I can force myself to eat without drawing attention to the fact that I’m barely holding it together.
And yet… despite how carefully I avoid looking at him, I can’t stop the thought from slipping in.
