I tried to act like nothing had changed.
The morning after he f****d me in his bed, I came downstairs in yoga pants and a cropped hoodie like it was any other day. Ethan was already at the stove making coffee, back to me, shoulders tense. He didn’t turn around right away. When he did, his eyes flicked over me—quick, hungry—then away. Like looking too long would burn him.
“Morning,” he said. Voice flat. Careful.
“Morning.” I smiled sweet, poured myself a mug, and brushed past him close enough that my hip grazed his. He sucked in a breath but didn’t move.
We spent the day avoiding each other. Or pretending to. I “worked” on my laptop by the pool in a bikini that barely covered anything. He mowed the lawn shirtless, muscles flexing under the sun. Every time I caught him glancing over, I s
