The next few days settled into a dangerous kind of rhythm. Mornings I’d wake up reaching for him before I caught myself, my body already trained to crave the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. Afternoons I’d bury myself in the studio, trying to make my showcase pieces feel like art instead of confessions. Evenings we’d circle each other like we were starving but pretending we weren’t—until one of us cracked and we ended up tangled somewhere in the house again, breathless and whispering things we had no business saying.
My phone kept lighting up with Tyler’s texts about meeting for coffee to “finalize the big canvas.” Each one made my stomach twist. Not because I wanted anything with him, but because ignoring them felt like admitting how deep I was already in this mess with Damie
