Sheila’s POV
The night feels too quiet.
The hum of the city outside fades beneath the weight of everything still clinging to my skin his touch, his voice, the way my own body betrayed me. I sit on the edge of my bed, hair damp from a shower that did nothing to wash him away.
The air smells like rain. My towel slides from my shoulders, forgotten. I stare at the floor, watching the droplets from my hair fall and darken the wood. My hands are still shaking, but not from the cold.
My phone glows on the nightstand.
One new message.
Brendan: You home?
My chest tightens. I stare at it too long before I even remember to breathe. My throat feels dry, and every part of me screams to ignore it, to turn off the phone, to make it all stop.
But I don’t.
My fingers move on their own, trembling,
