Lyra's POV
The steam from the bathroom was long gone, but the ghost of Jake’s touch still hummed against my skin as I sat at the dinner table. He had left the tub and the house in a blur of wet clothes and professional excuses, leaving the tension to settle in my bones like lead.
My mother sat across from me, her phone a permanent fixture next to her wine glass. She didn't look like a woman who had almost walked in on her husband and daughter in a bathtub. She looked like a woman who was already miles away, her mind probably navigating some corporate boardroom in her head.
"So," she began, her voice crisp and devoid of any maternal warmth. "Are you going to tell me why you’ve turned my guest room into a temporary sanctuary? Elliot called. He says you’re being difficult, Lyra."
I poked
