Dominic avoids me for two days.
He doesn’t leave the house—he just disappears inside it. He skips breakfast, stays out late, showers with the door locked, and doesn’t look at me once. Like if he pretends hard enough, he can make it all go away.
But he can’t.
Because I’m still here. Still aching. Still remembering every second of the night he made me his.
And I’m not about to let him rewrite that moment like it was a mistake.
Not when it felt like the only honest thing we’ve ever done.
⸻
On the third night, I corner him in the garage.
He’s working on Dad’s old motorcycle, covered in grease, arms tense, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He doesn’t flinch when I appear, but his entire body tightens.
“I’m not a ghost,” I say.
He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t say you were.”
“You’re a
