The air in Roman's opulent house was thick with an unspoken history, a silence that stretched between us like an invisible wall. I stood awkwardly in the hallway, the echo of the front door closing behind me amplifying the quiet. Roman, hands shoved into his pockets, strode towards the kitchen, and I, unsure of what else to do, followed. He moved with a familiar ease, pulling a jug of apple juice from the fridge and two glasses from the cupboard.

He didn't ask if I wanted a drink; he just poured, knowing me well enough to anticipate my answer. He knew apple juice was my favorite. He handed me a glass, and I took it, settling onto a stool at the breakfast bar. The clinking of ice against glass was the only sound.

Then, he looked up, his gaze meeting mine across the gleaming counter. There was nothing left to distract him. "So... how was the trip back from Forks?"

I shrugged, the simple question feeling like a monumental effort. "It was ok. Long... but it was ok." The words felt like pulling teeth.

He chuckled, a short, wry sound. "Well... this is awkward, huh?" I managed a small laugh in response, a fragile bridge over the chasm of weirdness that had settled between us.