Charles had learned long ago that there were different kinds of silence in the Cross household. He had spent so many years living in the house and had more than enough time to study what each silence meant.
There was the ordinary one, the controlled silence that came with discipline and routine, the kind Damian preferred, the one he had been raised in most of his life. And then there was this kind. The kind that pressed against the skin, it was heavy and uncomfortable, like a warning no one dared to speak out loud. That was the silence Charles found the most unsettling. It was the kind silence that was always there before or after a storm.
The dining room was set for breakfast exactly as it always was and had been like that since damian had walked in that morning and left. Dishes rested neatly on the table, the cutlery aligned, the napkins folded with precision. The faint aroma of food still lingered in the air, but it felt out of place now, almost intrusive.
