The house was quiet after sunset. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—more like the thick, waiting silence that comes right before a storm breaks open. Lights were low. Curtains drawn. The air still carried the faint musk of what had happened earlier, clinging to skin and sheets like smoke that refused to leave.
Joe and I didn’t speak much on the walk home. His hand stayed in mine the whole way—tight, almost too tight, like he was afraid I’d slip away if he loosened his grip even a fraction. I didn’t pull free. I let him hold on. Let him feel the tremor still running through my fingers from the way the neighbor had split me open on that couch while Joe watched every second.
We showered together. Silent. Water hot enough to sting. His hands moved over me carefully at first—washing my back, my
