~ Becca ~
I wake up pissed at myself.
Like full-body, jaw-clenched, what-the-f**k-are-you-doing pissed.
The ceiling above me isn’t mine. The sheets smell like him. Clean. Warm. Safe. Which somehow makes it worse. Because safety wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan. Comfort definitely wasn’t. And guilt? Guilt wasn’t invited at all, but here it is, sitting on my chest like it pays rent.
I roll onto my side and groan quietly.
Jesusfuck.
This was supposed to be strategy. Control. Chess. I move a piece, Stephen bleeds a little, Lydia spirals, Brielle loses her s**t. That’s the game.
Except Jace isn’t a piece.
That’s the problem.
I hear movement in the kitchen. Cabinets. A kettle. Normal life sounds that feel too intimate for someone I’m technically lying to by omission. I sit up, rub
