It was a Sunday evening. The kind where the house felt like it had slowed down to a rhythm it hadn't had all week. The smell of dinner lingered, quiet chatter filling spaces that had recently become tense.
Annabel sat at the edge of the dining table, poking at her food with mechanical precision. Richard across from her, jaw tight, elbows almost touching hers despite the space they intentionally left. Neither spoke much—words felt like trespassing.
Her mother cleared a spot on the table, folding napkins, humming softly. Then, in that way mothers do, she chose a question with the gentlest possible knife.
"You two… you've been awfully quiet around each other lately," she said. Not a scold. Not a suspicion. Just observation. Sharp, calm, undeniable. "Is something… wrong?"
Annabel's chest tightened. She froze, fork suspended in midair. The words were innocent on the surface, but they carried the weight of exposure.
Richard didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced at Annabel, searching for guidance—or perhaps for permission to speak without consequences. He found neither.
"Nothing's wrong," he said finally, voice steady but firm. "Just… busy. Thoughts, responsibilities. You know how it is."
Annabel forced a nod. "Yes. Busy," she echoed, heart pounding so hard it was almost audible.
Her mother tilted her head, eyes narrowing subtly—not suspicious exactly, but perceptive. She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that acknowledges she doesn't fully understand but will watch carefully.
"I see," she said, tone neutral but layered. "Just remember… It's healthy to talk about things. Even uncomfortable things."
The words hung in the air like a warning. Not an accusation. Not even curiosity. Just a gentle, undeniable spotlight.
Richard exhaled quietly once his mother left the room. "That was close," he muttered, low enough for only Annabel to hear.
Annabel's fingers trembled slightly around her fork. "We can't hide anymore," she whispered.
"We don't have to," he replied, voice soft, almost urgent. "But we have to be… careful."
Careful. The word felt heavier than anything else. Responsibility, secrecy, love—they all condensed into that single instruction.
Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the meal. But the atmosphere had changed. The house was no longer a neutral space. It was a space of scrutiny, conscious or not, and the slightest misstep could unravel months—or years—of disciplined restraint.
That night, as Annabel lay awake staring at the ceiling, she realised: the gentle question had done more damage than any confrontation could have.
Because now, they weren't just accountable to themselves. They were accountable to the house, to intuition, to eyes that didn't know the truth but could feel it.
And with accountability comes pressure—and with pressure comes risk.