Marcy leaned back against the worn leather couch in Ryan’s dimly lit living room, the city lights bleeding through the half-open blinds. At twenty-eight she still looked like the girl who’d once ruled the college party scene—curvy hips, full breasts that strained against every top she owned, dark hair that fell in messy waves when she let it down. But the office job had dulled the edges: spreadsheets, coffee runs, polite small talk. Inside, though, she was still fire. A slow, constant burn no one saw.
Tonight the burn felt dangerous.
Marcus sprawled on the floor in front of her, long legs stretched out, dark skin gleaming under the lamp. He was always the one who started s**t with that lazy smirk. Jake sat on the arm of the couch, blond hair messy from running his hands through it, bicep
