Chapter Thirty — “Clean Slate”
467 Words
Morning clawed its way through the house like a slow, rusted blade.
The bedroom was thick with the stink of sweat and sickness and something sourer Owen didn’t bother identifying.
He peeled himself out of bed while the sun was still dragging itself up behind the mountains, careful not to jostle Leia’s twitching body.
She muttered something under her breath — a broken, fevered whimper — and clutched the twisted blanket tighter against her chest.
Owen didn’t spare her a glance.
---
In the bathroom, he stripped and stepped into the shower.
The water blasted hot against his skin, washing sweat, s*x, and Keeley’s clinging perfume down the drain in swirling trails.
Rubbed a ragged bar of soap across his arms, his chest, his throat like it could scrub the memory of Keeley's teeth out of his skin.
---
When he stepped out, steam curling around him, he caught his reflection.
He still looked good.
Older, maybe. Harder.
But good.
He smiled at himself —
thin, sharp —
before dragging a towel over his hair.
---
Leia was awake when he came back into the bedroom.
Barely.
She lay flat on her back, the covers kicked halfway off, her skin a shade paler than the bedsheets.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven jerks.
Her lips were cracked, a faint smudge of blood dried in the corner of her mouth.
She blinked up at him, struggling to focus.
"Morning," she rasped.
Owen smiled —
that bright, easy smile that had once sold her on forever.
"Morning, beautiful," he said smoothly, tugging on a clean shirt.
Leia’s cracked lips curved into a weak echo of a smile.
She tried to sit up.
Failed.
Settled for pressing one trembling hand over her stomach.
---
"Think I’ll... call in sick again," she whispered.
Owen grabbed his belt, looping it through his slacks with slow, lazy movements.
"You should," he said. "Rest up."
Leia nodded, too exhausted to notice the way his voice didn't bend with real concern.
---
He poured her a glass of ginger ale from the bottle left on the nightstand and set it beside her like an offering.
Leia whispered a raspy "thank you" and let her head thud weakly back against the pillow.
He leaned down —
kissed her forehead lightly —
ignoring the way her skin burned under his lips.
She smiled up at him like he was a goddamn saint.
"You’re the best," she whispered, barely audible.
Owen straightened, grabbing his keys from the dresser.
The front door clicked shut behind him a minute later.
The mask stayed firmly in place all the way to the car.
Only once he was on the road —
with the sick house shrinking in the rearview mirror —
did Owen allow himself the smallest, bitter smile.
- Writer
