The tension after dinner wasn't the loud kind—it was the simmering, "everyone's pretending to be normal but clearly isn't" kind. Clay bowls clinked as Cyrus stacked them neatly, the muscles in his bare forearms flexing with each movement, his quiet, focused precision the picture of domestic calm.
Zyran, on the other hand, had no intention of leaving quietly. Standing at the doorway, one hand holding the edge of the curtain-like cotton that separated the inside from the cool night air, he turned just enough so his voice would carry.
"When you cook tomorrow," he began, pausing dramatically like this was some royal decree, "make my own portion. Because I was starved tonight. And it's not fair that you get a huge portion, while I—" he gestured at himself like the victim of some ancient injustice "—get what even a baby beast would complain about."
