She washes quickly and steps out, wrapping the towel around herself. But before leaving the room, she leans forward over the vanity, arms braced against the counter. She looks into her own eyes.
Stares too long.
Then lifts her arm to rake her hand through her damp hair—and the scent hits again. His scent. On her skin.
That ghost of him, clinging in places he’s never touched.
And just like that—there’s that ache again. Sharp and quiet.
She forces herself to speak aloud. Ground yourself, Sara.
“I’m happy for Claire,” she says to the mirror.
But it doesn’t land the way it should.
Downstairs, the kitchen is cold but still smells faintly like last night’s tacos. She cracks eggs into a bowl, beats them with too much force, and tosses bacon into the skillet. She reaches for bread, pops slices in the toaster.
Her hands are moving, but her mind isn’t here.
I’m happy for Claire…
But underneath that truth is another one.
I envy her.
Claire came here to breathe—and ended up finding the kind of man every woman says doesn’t exist. The kind who leaves money for room service tips. The kindwho remembers. Who listens. Who makes you laugh and breakfast. Who probably reads books and makes you feel like the only person in the room.
Gentle. That’s what she called him.
Sara flips the bacon with shaking fingers.
She found the guy who does it all. And I’m the one cooking in his damn kitchen.
The thought hits so hard it makes her blink.
The sizzle of bacon is the only sound until a voice cuts through it.
“Damn, girl. Are you okay?”
Sara jumps—visibly flinching.
Macie’s eyebrows lift. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Sara clears her throat, turns back to the pan. “Was just thinking. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“You looked deep in it. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just… spacing out.”
She shakes it off, grabs a spatula, and busies herself with flipping toast.
“Breakfast is almost ready. Where’s Taylor?”
“Should be down soon. I heard her moving around.”
Sara nods, but says nothing more.
Because suddenly, she doesn’t trust herself to speak.
