3
By the next afternoon, I’d started second-guessing everything again.
I sat on the windowsill with my legs folded beneath me with a half-finished cup of coffee cooling in my hand. Sunlight poured through the glass. It made everything feel too normal, like the past two nights had been vivid dreams stitched together by my lonely imagination and too many hours on ghost forums.
Except I still ached between my thighs.
Except the mirror still fogged on its own.
Except his name, Aren, still lingered on the edge of my thoughts.
I needed air.
So when I heard a knock on my door around five, and opened it to find my neighbor who was a tall, golden-skinned man with a bottle of wine in hand and a lopsided smile that said he was good trouble. I said yes before he could even ask the question.
“Y
