Amelia sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped tightly around a half-empty mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting pale stripes across her face, but she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
Oliver was upstairs napping, the house finally quiet after the emotional chaos of the last twenty-four hours. Brad was gone—he hadn’t tried to come back. He was probably at Claire's place. She couldn't care less.
She should have felt relieved. But all she felt was… hollow.
Because even after everything, her mind wasn’t on Brad.
It was on Andrew.
It had been days now. Days since they shared that raw, vulnerable night—since she had let herself collapse into his arms and feel like she mattered again, if only for those few stolen hours
