The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet.
Tension was still in the air like a fog that refused to lift.
No one said anything. No one dared.
The only sound was the awkward, rhythmic, and almost aggressive thud-thud of Martha chopping onions like the onions owed her something. Her head was bowed and her face was blank — though the redness around her eyes could've been from the onions… or the fact that she'd just walked in on something she couldn't unsee.
On the other side of the kitchen, Scott stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands soaked in soap and water as he scrubbed at a plate that had long since stopped needing attention. His jaw was clenched, and his tired eyes stared blankly at the porcelain.
He looked like a man who hadn't slept in weeks.
Which, frankly, was kind of true.
Because how else was he supposed to look when his own mother — whom he hadn't seen in nearly a year — just caught him with a handful of some girl's ass?
He sighed heavily, muttering under his breath—
