Keira’s thumb kept scrolling, but she glanced up once—not at anyone in particular, just a quick sweep of the table. Her eyes passed over Y/n, held for half a second, then returned to her screen.

Paul’s voice was low, steady, directed at Logan. Something about footwork. Something about Saturday’s game. Logan nodded along, chewing, his attention split between his father’s words and the food in front of him.

The light caught the edge of a glass, throwing a small prism onto the wall. A muted rainbow. Unnoticed by everyone.

The conversation continued. Warm. Familiar. The kind of evening that had happened a hundred times before.

Across the table, Paul’s gaze drifted. It landed on Y/n. Just for a breath. A flicker of something—thought, maybe. Or recognition. Then it moved on, settling back on Logan, and he said something about the upcoming tournament.

The moment passed. The room was still warm. The potatoes were still steaming. And Y/n sat at the table, between the spaces of everyone’s attention, in the quiet that no one filled.