Dawson
The water hits my shoulders hard enough to sting.
I welcome it.
Steam fogs the small bathroom, curling along the ceiling and beading against the mirror, and I brace my hands against the tile, head bowed, eyes shut. The water is hot — hotter than necessary — like I’m trying to rinse something off that refuses to let go.
It doesn’t work.
Maybe a cold shower would have been a better option, because all I can see is Grace in the snow. Her eyes were darker than I’ve ever seen them, fixed on mine like she was waiting — not pushing, not rushing — just there. The way her breath caught when everything went still, when the laughter faded, and the space between us shrank to something fragile and charged.
I’d almost done it.
Almost closed that last inch.
I exhale slowly, jaw tightening,
