Aftershock: Tess
The night was supposed to be the victory lap. We had baked bread, eaten, drank wine, and fell into bed with the kind of exhaustion that usually only comes from a day well-spent. For hours, the bungalow was silent, wrapped in the heavy southern humidity and filled with the shared warmth of our bodies. But at 2:45AM, the peace shattered. I didn’t wake up to a sound. I woke up to a movement — a violent jarring of the mattress. I blinked my eyes open, clearing the disorienting blur of sleep. The silvery moonlight made the room look like a charcoal sketch. Beside me, K.C. wasn’t just sleeping. He was trapped. He laid flat on his back, but his body was as rigid as the oak planks he spent his day scraping. His breath came in short, jagged pants — a low, predatory huffing that sounded more
- Writer
