Morning felt like walking on glass.
I sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal I had no appetite for, hyperaware of every sound in the house. My mother moved around the stove, humming softly. Tristan’s father read something on his tablet. And Tristan sat across from me, looking far too composed for someone who had spent half the night with his hands under my shirt and his mouth on my neck.
Every time our eyes met, the memory of it surged back—his weight above me, the gold in his eyes, the way he had stopped the moment I said I wasn’t ready. The care in that restraint made my chest ache almost as much as the hunger that still lived under my skin.
“You’re quiet this morning,” my mother said, glancing over her shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Just tired,” I answered. It wasn’t entirely
