NAOMI’S POV
I was wearing his shirt.
That's what I keep coming back to when I replay it. Not the words, not the silence after, not the way his hands shook for twenty minutes straight. The shirt. Grey, threadbare, smelled like his soap and his skin and the night before. I was standing in his kitchen with coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, scrolling through nothing, feeling the kind of quiet that only exists the morning after someone holds you like you're the last good thing.
The door opened without a knock.
Richard Maddox walked into his son's apartment the way he walked into everything – like he owned it. Like the space rearranged itself around him out of obligation. Expensive coat. Car keys still in hand. Eyes that swept the room and catalogued every detail in under three s
