Just tell her it’s her turn.
Because if I open my mouth right now, I don’t trust what’s going to come out.
She disappears into the bathroom.
The door shuts.
And the second it does? Everything gets louder.
The room.
My thoughts.
Her.
I hear the soft shift of fabric.
The quiet sound of her clothes hitting tile.
My jaw tightens.
“Jesus. Fuck,” I murmur.
The water kicks on.
And a second later—I hear that subtle change.
The one I know too well.
The very moment she steps beneath the spray.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
This is fucking torture.
I should be doing something.
Checking the route.
Texting Micah.
Thinking about the delivery.
Instead, I’m standing here, staring at the bathroom door like it’s the only thing in the world.
Because part of me already knows where this is going.
Knows how it ends if I let it.
And the worst part?
I don’t even think I want to stop it.
But I really should, because I still need answers.
I need the truth.
Did Paul—the guy I knew since we were kids, my buddy who joined up with me to risk life and limb for our country—lie?
