The morning light was cruel.
It slanted through the thin motel curtains, spilling over the tangled sheets, over our tangled bodies. The air was thick with sweat, with s*x, with the sharp scent of everything we’d done to each other in the dark.
Mark stirred beside me, his chest rising and falling slow but restless. His arm was still draped across my waist, heavy and protective, but his face was lined with shadows. Even in sleep, guilt clung to him like a second skin.
I lay there, wide awake, staring at the stained ceiling, replaying everything.
Mom’s face when Lily had spoken. Her eyes, wide and horrified. Her voice breaking on the word sick.
The way she had looked at me—her daughter—and not seen me anymore.
The pain sliced through me again, but underneath it, something else lingered.
