All Chapters of Betrayal Between the vows : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The morning light felt thin, almost brittle, slipping weakly through the half-open blinds.The room smelled faintly of rain, though the windows were shut.Shadows lay in uneven strips across the floor, cut apart by the narrow gaps in the blinds.Two mugs sat on the table, both half-full, both cooling quickly.The steam had already thinned into nothing.No one had touched them for a while.There was no talk of yesterday.There was no question of tomorrow.Everything hung in the fragile weight of now—each second stretching long, fragile enough to break under the wrong breath.Eyes met only in fragments, never fully, as though both feared what might be read there.Every small sound the creak of a chair, the shift of fabric, the faint tick of a clock seemed sharper, magnified, too loud for the stillness.One hand rested on the table, fingers tracing an invisible shape into the wood.The other hand stayed still, gripping the edge as if anchoring to something solid.There were things to be

The room was neither warm nor cold, caught in that fragile in between where even the air seemed to hesitate. Shadows clung to the corners, soft yet unmoving, as though they’d been listening for a long time. The blinds were half open, letting in strips of muted light that cut across the floor and the table in uneven lines. Two chairs faced each other but sat just far enough apart to make the space between them feel deliberate. A cup rested near the edge of the table, untouched, its surface trembling faintly with the weight of stillness. Somewhere outside, a car passed, the sound fading too quickly, leaving behind something heavier than silence. Eyes lifted and fell in careful intervals, never meeting for more than a breath. The pauses between glances carried more than the looks themselves hesitations, unformed words, fragments of meaning that didn’t make it past the lips. Every shift in posture, every small motion of the hands, felt loaded, as if movement alone might unravel wh

The hallway smelled faintly of rain, though the windows had been closed all night. Light from a single bulb above flickered in uneven pulses, stretching shadows along the walls until they seemed to bend and twist. The air carried a weight, thick enough to slow each step. The door at the end stood open just enough to show darkness beyond. Not a comforting darkness this one felt alive, waiting. Every instinct urged turning away, but the feet didn’t move back. Not this time. The floor was cold underfoot, the boards creaking with each shift of weight. Somewhere deeper inside, something shifted a sound too soft to place, but too deliberate to ignore. The memory of the last time pressed close, the one when leaving had been the only choice. The one when running had seemed like survival. Now, the distance between the door and the figure in the hall was narrowing. Each step forward carried a strange calm, the kind that comes when fear has already run its course. The air inside the

Lucas poured the tea like it was a ritual he’d practiced for a lifetime, even though the chipped green mug hadn’t been touched in years. His hands moved with muscle memory teabag steeping, spoon clinking against porcelain, steam rising in small swirls that curled toward the ceiling. Across from him, Elias sat at the small round kitchen table, watching. That table had been with Lucas through everything arguments that ended in slammed doors, laughter loud enough to draw complaints from neighbors, midnight takeout spread across its surface, promises whispered like secrets, and silences that had spoken louder than any words. Today, it carried something heavier than all of that: the weight of memory, or rather, the absence of it. “I think you always took the green one,” Lucas said, sliding the mug across. Elias’s fingers wrapped around it, tentative, like he was holding something fragile. His brow furrowed as if the mug might unlock a door in his head if he stared long enough. His lips

Lucas woke before the sun, eyes open to a soft gray ceiling. He didn’t know why maybe a dream, maybe just Elias’s presence in the next room pulling at something old in his chest. He turned his head toward the hallway. Elias hadn’t made a sound all night. No footsteps. No doors. Still, Lucas felt him there. The way you feel someone you once loved even in silence. He sat up, rubbed his face, and went to the kitchen. The floor was cold under his bare feet. He started the kettle without thinking. One mug. No sugar. He paused then pulled out a second cup. Old habits die hard. A soft sound broke the quiet. Elias appeared in the doorway, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep. He wore a plain T-shirt and the same sweatpants Lucas had folded for him the night before. “You’re up early,” he said, voice rough. “So are you.” “I heard you moving around. Thought maybe you needed company.” Lucas poured hot water into both mugs. “Or maybe you didn’t want to be alone.” Elias shrugged, sitting