The bathroom felt hollow after they left.

No shouts. No footsteps. Just the drip of water sliding off Noa’s jaw, hitting tile like a metronome counting down to something worse. The air was thick with what had been said, heavier still with what hadn’t. The steam clung like something alive, reluctant to fade, turning each exhale into a ghost that hovered too close to his face.

Alessio hadn’t moved far. He sat on the closed lid of the sink cabinet, one arm looped over his knee, the other ...