Denver.
I did not knock.
I didnt need to announce myself.
The guards outside Christopher’s door barely had time to straighten before I push past them and open it.
Sound hits me first.
A woman’s breathless moan. The unmistakable cadence of pleasure. The low, careless murmur of my nephew’s voice, thick with indulgence.
The door is still swinging inward when I see them.
Christopher has Joyce pressed beneath him, his hands gripping her hips with ownership he has no right to claim. Her head is thrown back, her hair fanned against the pillows, her mouth parted in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
They do not see me at first.
That is the worst part.
This was not a secret moment stolen in haste. This was comfort. Familiarity. Repetition.
This was betrayal made routine. Just thinking
