The apartment is cold. Too quiet. The heater rattles in the corner like it’s dying again, and the light bleeding through the blinds is that hazy kind that makes everything feel like it’s still midnight even though it isn’t.
The kind of light that doesn’t forgive you for being awake.
My lips are dry.
My thighs ache.
I hate myself for the second one.
I sit up slowly, tug my oversized hoodie down to cover my bare legs even though no one’s here to see, and tell myself it was just a moment. Just adrenaline. Just some sleazy rich bastard who thought he could psych me out in a back room with a pretty face and a metal hand.
It worked.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I didn’t even leave right away.
I stood there like a goddamn idiot, letting him talk to me like he knew my bones. Like he’d studied my weaknesses.
And worse — he had.
Because he knew things I haven’t said out loud in years.
Things I buried under sarcasm, under vodka, under duct tape and therapy bills and blackout curtains. Things he shouldn’t know. Couldn’t know.
Unless—
No.
I shut that thought down the same way I’ve shut down every other one that threatened to crack me open — quickly, violently, without looking too closely at what bleeds when I do.
I get up. Make coffee. Add two sugars and a splash of oat milk because I’ve been pretending I’m the kind of person who drinks oat milk now. It tastes like regret. Or maybe that’s just me.
The mug shakes slightly in my hand. I pretend not to notice.
I check the locks on the front door. Again.
They’re still locked.
I check the window latches. Still shut.
I check my phone. No messages. No missed calls. No weird notifications. I don’t even know what I’m hoping for.
Maybe a warning.
Maybe a threat.
Maybe a fucking sign that last night wasn’t as real as it felt.
Because the silence is worse.
The silence means he’s waiting.
I pull my phone open, scroll to my camera app, then stop. I hesitate. Why am I doing this? What do I think I’ll find?
But my hands move anyway.
I open the app.
Flip the view.
