The next morning was too quiet.
Birds chirped outside the window like nothing had changed, like the night before hadn’t happened. But it had. I could still taste her on my lips. Still feel her hips grinding into mine. Still hear her breathless moan when she whispered “Later.”
Later.
That one word had ruined my sleep. I’d tossed and turned in bed, hard for hours, my mind playing back every movement, every sway of her body. I wanted her. Again. Worse.
And worse? She knew it.
I stumbled out of my room around 9 a.m., rubbing sleep from my eyes, expecting coffee and awkward silence. What I got instead was silence, yes—but charged, loaded silence.
My dad’s car was gone from the driveway. The note on the kitchen table read:
“Had to run to the city for a meeting. Be back around noon. Be goo
