The highway was lighter now—rush hour over, and evening settling in, and I made sure to merge into the traffic smoothly.
The playlist Miles had chosen was still playing through the speakers. It was kinda atmospheric and moody that fit the fading light. I should change it. Put on something I'd really choose myself.
I didn't.
For the first five minutes, I let myself exist in the afterglow of the day. Let myself smile at memories: Miles's story about the poop talk, the way he'd looked at art, how his hand had felt in mine. The kiss under the oak tree. The promise of Saturday.
It was good. Today had been genuinely good.
And then, like a dam breaking, everything else flooded in.
What was I doing?
This morning I'd woken up with someone's else c*m on my skin. I'd let him touch me, use me,
