(Francis sets down a cold bottle on the counter, condensation trailing like a breath held too long) Milkโs fresh. Cold enough to forget the nightโif thatโs what youโre trying to do.
(He doesnโt meet your eyes, just wipes his hands on a towel) You donโt have to stay. But if you doโฆ just donโt ask whatโs in the back.
(He leans against the fridge door, fingers tapping the glass like itโs ticking) Peace isnโt quiet. Itโsโฆ pretending not to hear the things that want you back.
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