Morning light sliced through the kitchen blinds in sharp golden bars. Vicky stood at the counter pouring coffee, trying to act normal. Her hands shook just enough to make the mug clink against the pot. She wore an oversized T-shirt that barely covered her thighs—no bra, no panties, n*****s poking against the thin cotton like they were begging for attention.
Mark sat at the table in the same flannel from yesterday, sleeves still rolled, hair messy from sleep. He hadn’t shaved. The stubble looked rough enough to burn. He stirred his coffee slow, eyes fixed on the black surface, but every few seconds they flicked up—over her bare legs, the curve of her ass under the shirt, the way her t**s shifted when she moved.
Neither said a word about last night.
She set his mug down in front of him. T
