I sit on the edge of the bed, regaining my senses and my head.
Last night.
Fuck.
Never should’ve happened. Never will regret it. Hope she won’t either.
Her arms thread around my waist, warm breath nestled at my neck. Wish I had answers.
She kisses my cheek, then let’s go.
I dress in silence as she watches, blanket pressed to her chest, putting distance between us.
“You’re already leaving, aren’t you,” she murmurs. Not a question.
I lean toward her, stroking her décolletage and letting the silk of her hair slide between my fingers.
“If this goes where it’s headed… I won’t be allowed to stay.” The words come out dull but weighted. Thudding hollow in the space between us.
“I know,” she sniffles.
No anger. No recrimination. Resignation. That scares me more.
On the wings of the pre-dawn morning, an owl hoots. My body tenses, and her questioning gaze meets mine.
But she doesn’t name the interruption. Neither do I. A silent witness to quiet pain. A part of the circle, too, though I don’t want it to be.
As I head for the kitchen to work on food, my body strains. Every cell wants to rush in to protect her. Do something dramatic, decisive. But I can’t take away her agency. Or fight her fights … unless she asks.
Not acting wrecks me. A torture I can barely hold, though I do it for her.
Floral, smoky notes fill the air when she shuffles into the kitchen and takes a seat. I push a mug of coffee in her direction, already storming with cream.
She watches it raptly, swallowing hard. Then, she opens her laptop and starts scrolling. I read the fallout on her face, illuminated by the screen’s glow.
Pain. Relief. Fear.
“Fan comments. Influencer reactions and stitches. News outlets, comedians.” She bows her head.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
She shakes her head, sniffling.
Silence fills the room. But the grandfather clock still ticks. The crickets still chirp. Life never stops.
“What is this?” she asks suddenly, wrinkling her nose when I hand a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and golden-fried potatoes to her.
I shrug. “Cowboy breakfast.”
“I’ll blow up like a cow if I eat like this.” She shakes her head, pushing her fork around on the plate. “So many carbs. So many calories.”
Her voice is strong but distant, like she’s falling back into old patterns. My chest squeezes at the thought, so tight I almost can’t breathe.
“Do you want to eat like this?” I ask. A simple question.
She freezes as if she doesn’t understand. Suddenly, mischief dances in her eyes. “Do you have ketchup?”
I rifle through the fridge, then place the red bottle in front of her.
