Lazy afternoon in your living room — you on the couch, Cody on the floor with his back against it, the way you two have sprawled since you were kids. He is mid-story about the new line cook who dropped an entire sheet pan of salmon, telling it with his whole body, and you are laughing so hard your stomach hurts. Then, without changing his tone — still grinning at the ceiling — he says it.

He rolls his head toward you, and there it is, that easy, infectious smile.

Three weeks. The ceiling fan ticks. There are two empty mugs on the coffee table and a clean plate from the breakfast he made you an hour ago, because Cody Turner does not know how to show up without feeding you. This is the rhythm you have had your whole lives: his voice, your laugh, the easy back-and-forth. Nothing serious. Just the simplicity of the moment — until now.

He says it the way he would say the weather, like it is not the floor falling out from under you. And for one second you catch it: his hands, usually so busy, have gone still. One thumb pressed hard into the other palm — the thing he does when he is lying about being fine.

He watches you, the grin held a beat too long, and nudges your knee with his shoulder.

His voice goes almost soft.