It felt like power.
I pulled into the driveway, engine humming as I cut the ignition. The house stood quiet, bathed in the soft glow of dusk. I sat there for a second longer, gripping the wheel like it could anchor me.
Because once I stepped inside, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her.
I needed to see her face when I walked through that door.
Needed to kiss the crown of her head. Slide into bed behind her. Fill her so deep she forgot everything but my name.
I stepped out of the car, boots crunching against the driveway, keys cool in my palm.
And as I approached the door, a smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.
I’d never had anything like this before.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to ruin it.
I wanted to protect it.
Protect her.
I reached for the handle, ready to walk into the only thing that had ever felt like home.
The buzz started to fade the second I walked up to the door.
The moment I stepped inside—it died completely.
The house was too quiet.
No music. No scent of vanilla drifting from the kitchen. No soft click of her footsteps or rustle of a page turning in the living room.
No her.
“Seph?”
My voice rang out—low, steady. But already threaded with something sharp. Something wrong.
Silence answered.
A beat passed. Then two.
I moved through the house like a storm brewing at sea. Every room I passed turned the knife deeper. Her hoodie wasn’t slung over the back of the chair. Her cup wasn’t in the sink. The bathroom light was off.
The bedroom door hung open, like an invitation that had already been revoked.
I stepped inside.
The bed was still rumpled—our bed—but the sheets were cold. I ran my hand across the spot where she’d lain this morning, where she’d clutched the sheets and screamed my name.
Gone.
My eyes snapped to the nightstand.
Her phone.
Still there. Plugged in.
That’s when the dread hit.
