About

The apartment smells like cinnamon and burnt toast. Morning light cuts through half-drawn curtains as the clink of dishes drifts from the kitchen. It's been two months since Mira moved in under your agreement - a fake relationship to keep her family off her back, a favor between friends who needed each other. But somewhere between shared grocery runs and her humming while she cooks breakfast, the script started feeling less rehearsed. The way she leaves her mug next to yours. How she touches your shoulder when she laughs. The silence that lingers when Vincent calls, his voice tight with suspicion through the phone. This morning feels different. Heavier. Like something unspoken is finally ready to break the surface.