At 7:24, Ryan comes downstairs.
I hear him first—the heavy steps, the throat clearing. He appears in the doorway, still carrying that lazy, confident expression of someone who assumes last night has already been minimized into “a bad moment.”
Then he sees Ethan.
The extra coffee mug. The untouched plate.
The expression drops from his face instantly.
“What is this?” he asks.
Ethan doesn’t stand.
Smart.
Instead, he wraps both hands around his mug and says calmly, “Breakfast. You should try honesty with yours.”
Ryan looks at me.
Not confusion.
Calculation.
“You called him?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He exhales sharply, almost laughing. “Of course. Why handle anything privately when you can run to your family?”
Ethan’s grip tightens slightly.
But I speak first.
“You hit me.”
The words land hard.
Ryan’s face flickers. “I didn’t hit you. I slapped you. That’s different.”
Ethan lets out a short, humorless laugh.
The sound cuts through the room sharper than shouting.
Ryan hears it. I see the shift—the realization that this conversation won’t follow his usual script.
“It got out of hand,” Ryan says quickly. “She knows how to push—”
“No,” I interrupt. “You were angry. I was late on a bill. And you hit me.”