The next morning the apartment felt heavier than usual. Adrian had come home late the night before after I confronted him about Olivia. He’d slept on the couch. I’d locked the bedroom door and cried until the rain stopped. Now the sun was up, but the air still carried the weight of everything unsaid.
I found him in the kitchen. He was already dressed for work, but he wasn’t rushing. He stood at the counter pouring coffee, shoulders tense, jaw tight. When he heard me, he turned.
His eyes were red-rimmed. Tired.
“I didn’t sleep much,” he said quietly.
“Neither did I.”
He set the mug down. Looked at me for a long moment.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” he said. “About how I made you feel. About how I’ve been making you feel since the wedding.”
He stepped closer. Not touching me
