Someone shouting about calling the cops.
Then the knock.
Hard.
Official.
I opened the door.
“Everything’s fine,” I said too fast.
She appeared beside me instantly, calm as glass.
“I tripped,” she told them. “Knocked over a lamp. Hurt my foot. I yelled. I’m so sorry.”
The cops looked past us.
Broken glass. Furniture overturned. Me half-dressed and dripping.
No blood.
No story.
“Keep it down,” they said.
Door closed.
Silence.
Worse than the screaming.
Then she collapsed into tears.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry.”
She cleaned. Fixed. Tried to kiss me.
But there was nothing left in me to meet her halfway.
Eventually she fell asleep on top of me, arms locked around my chest like a seatbelt.
I stared at the ceiling.
Pinned.
This wasn’t passion anymore.
This was something else.
And I didn’t know how to end it without detonating everything.
Morning came like nothing had happened.
Coffee. Eggs. Toast.
Sage barefoot in my T-shirt like she’d always lived there.
Too normal.
