KAIA
I swear the clock on the wall is broken, or maybe the universe is playing some cruel joke, because every time I glance at it, another chunk of minutes has disappeared.
I try to keep busy, really—stacking files, re-stacking them, checking patient notes I don’t even need to check but my hands keep drifting to my neck like they’ve developed muscle memory, brushing over skin that still throbs where Morgan’s fingers dug in.
I don’t need a mirror to know it’s red. Maybe even bruised. It feels like it.
And every time I catch myself touching it, I force my hand down and pretend I’m fine. Normal. Like I almost didn't get strangled in the record room an hour ago by a she-wolf who could probably snap my spine without breaking a sweat because she saw her mate give me a pen.
My life's a mess
