Black.
Soft.
Folded perfectly.
A blindfold.
Not the same one.
Not silk.
This one is thicker.
Darker.
Hand-cut.
Hand-stitched.
My stomach plummets so hard I grip the edge of the glass to stay upright.
Noah didn’t blindfold me last night.
But someone did.
Someone who came back.
Someone who walked into this room again.
Someone who left this behind as though gifting me a memory of last night’s hands on my skin.
My throat burns.
I sink to my knees slowly, the tiles cold beneath my shins, steam curling around my hair as I reach out and pick it up.
It’s warm.
Not from the shower.
From being held.
Recently.
A tremor runs through me so violently I nearly drop it, but I clutch it tighter, thumb brushing along the edge of the fabric.
There’s something written on it.
Threaded into the inside seam, stitched with rough, hurried precision, as though done by someone who doesn’t do delicate work but couldn’t stand leaving it plain.
One word.
One claim.
One threat.
MINE
The letters are jagged, almost violent, sewn with a heavy, almost angry hand.
