Cierra:
This morning, the air between us was fragile, stretched thin and trembling like stained glass.
Dominic’s words still clung to my skin—his whispered promises, his steady devotion, the way he’d told me he would wait, hold, endure every fragment of me until I could trust again.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to.
But even as we pulled ourselves out of the tangled sheets, as I stood by the dresser tugging my shirt over my head, the weight of doubt gnawed at my chest. His patience was both a balm and a blade. Every time he steadied me, I felt my anger sharpen—because if he could be that calm, maybe he had nothing to lose. Perhaps I was the only one fraying.
I fumbled with the buttons, my fingers clumsy, my heartbeat loud. Dominic was across the room, dragging his jeans on,
