Cyril
The sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of my bedroom, casting long, amber streaks across the duvet.
I blinked, the transition from the deep, heavy sleep of exhaustion to consciousness feeling like surfacing from underwater.
The events of the night before replayed behind my eyelids like a feverish, high-definition film.
I saw the strobe lights of the club, the cold stone of the foyer, the way Alan’s eyes had turned into obsidian when he saw Joel’s hand on me. And then, the study.
I rolled over onto my stomach, burying my face in the cool silk of the pillow to stifle a giggle that felt dangerously close to a manic laugh.
I had expected so many things.
I had expected a lecture that would last for hours; I had expected the freezing, agonizing silent treatment that
