2
Tessa.
Breakfast is a mess.
I never thought I’d be the kind of girl who tiptoes down the stairs, sore between her thighs, her hair a little wild, hoping no one looks too closely. I can still feel the imprint of Liam’s teeth on my collarbone as raw proof of what we did. The memory hits in flashes—his mouth, his hands, the way he held me down and made me him. I should feel guilty, I think. But mostly, I feel alive.
Mom’s already clattering pans in the kitchen, humming to herself. Liam’s at the table, acting like nothing happened. He doesn’t even look at me when I walk in. His hair’s still messy, the black tattoo snaking up his arm. He’s scrolling through his phone, shirtless, wearing only sweatpants that hang too low on his hips.
I swallow and look away. I don’t trust myself around hi
