And I can’t tell if Pete is pulling me closer to shore or further out to sea.
We climb into bed and for a moment, things are simple again. He pulls me against him, kisses the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I let myself melt into him, because it feels good to be wanted. To be chosen.
But in the dark, my eyes stay open.
I can still feel the ghost of James’ stare.
I can still see the bruise on Pete’s wrist.
And I can’t shake the thought that I might already be in too deep — but I want to go deeper anyway.
Because if I don’t find out what’s really happening here, it’ll eat me alive.
Pete’s already yawning by the time we crawl into bed, like a cat who’s had a particularly full day of being adorable. He rolls towards me, arm draped over my waist, and there’s that flicker in his eyes – the unspokenso… are we going to…?
Ikiss him softly but pull back, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with lust.
“I don’t think I can, not here. Not with…” I gesture vaguely, as if James is lurking behind the wardrobe. “I just… can’t relax knowing he’s a few doors down. Can I get used to sleeping over for a bit first?”
Pete doesn’t push. He just nods, squeezes my hand and says, “That’s okay. I get it.” He really does. I press my face into his shoulder, grateful for that understanding, and before long, his breathing evens out into soft, steady sleep.
Me? My brain has other plans.
It spins.
About James, about Sam, about that conversation earlier where James basically auditioned to play the villain in my personal horror film.
And Chris. The ex. Who didn’t get on with James. Who disappeared so suddenly.
Why does this leave such a bitter taste in my mouth?
Then Daniel pops into my mind too. Still hovering around. Ever after all the years, still in my life.
And then Evelyn. Another name I want to remove from my life but know I never can.
I lie in bed thinking about how the knife sliced through him.
How many messages like that can I take.
So many names buzzing around my brain. Sleep is not my friend this evening.
The wine doesn’t help – I feel like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. My head is starting to bang like the hangover is checking in early. Dehydration beckons and eventually, thirst wins over paranoia. I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Pete, and pad barefoot into the hallway.
The house feels different at night – quieter, like it’s holding its breath. The lights are dim, shadows stretching everywhere.
I find the kitchen, gulp a glass of water straight from the tap like a teenager avoiding parental judgment, and start back up the stairs and down the hall.
That’s when I see it.
Halfway along the corridor, a door is ajar. Just a sliver of light spills into the hallway.
I hear noises.
There are noises—low, guttural.
Not just sex sounds.
Something rougher.
