By the time we finish eating and clear the table, the room has settled into a quiet hum again. I curl up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in my blanket like a leftover burrito, while Theo leans forward to reach for the sketchbook I left on the coffee table.
"Can I see this?" he asks.
I nod. "Just random sketch because I was bored when Elliot did his assignments."
"It's okay, I like your doodles."
He picks it up like it's the most natural thing, flipping through the pages with a kind of reverent curiosity. His fingers pause on a rough sketch—a profile, faint and unfinished.
Elliot.
Even without details, it's obvious. The curve of the jaw, the way his hair falls forward, the slight frown-line at his temple. I wonder if Theo recognizes him. Probably. He looks at it for a long moment, quiet. Eyes tracing the lines. But he doesn't say anything. Just flips the page.
I let the silence stretch until I feel like I should say something. Anything.
