Something pulled me toward the bathroom—that predator’s instinct I never questioned.
Door cracked open.
I pushed it wider.
And there it was.
The fucking ring.
Sitting on the counter. Alone.
Like it meant something.
I stared at it, jaw tight, breath locked in my chest.
She left it.
Cute.
Like walking away from a battlefield meant you won the war.
A muscle jumped in my jaw. I didn’t reach for it. Didn’t touch it.
That tiny band of metal said everything.
She was scared.
She was angry.
She was trying to draw a line.
Too bad she drew it in my home. In my fucking shirt. With my name burning in her blood.
I should’ve smashed it. Thrown it through the goddamn mirror.
But I didn’t.
Because that ring wasn’t hers anymore.
It was mine.
Just like she was.
She’d wear it.
Maybe not tonight.
But she’d beg for it soon enough.
I found her in the kitchen.
Back to me, like she could ignore me. Barefoot. In my shirt.
Her hair was a mess—wild and untamed like she’d just rolled out of bed and hadn’t decided whether to run or burn the place down.
The shirt hung low, sliding off one shoulder. Too big. Perfect.
Left her legs bare. Marked her like a flag planted on foreign fucking soil.
