When I wake up, it’s still dark in the room, no beam of light from between the two heavy drapes. There’s a warm body underneath me, muscles waiting. My hand clenches in springy hair on a broad chest. Before I look up, I know it’s Sutton. A slice through my chest, realizing that we’re alone in the room. Sometime after taking my virginity, sometime after kissing my hair, he walked away. That’s what he always does. He probably has some academic reasoning in his head about how it’s actually protecting me, walking away, instead of breaking my heart again.
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Christopher?”
“He left. Are you feeling okay?” He means the virginity thing, which I want to brush off as nothing. Not a big deal. Only a social construct, except it feels distinctly physical right now. There’s a
