The email was waiting when I picked up my phone in his bed.
Campus housing. Three weeks. A single. A portal link and a cheerful subject line that did not know I was sore in three places and leaking his last night onto his sheets. I sat against the headboard with the collar still on — I had slept in it — and I read the message twice like it might change into something less like a door.
Cole was already in the kitchen. Coffee. Cup on the counter. The bag was still on the stairs where he had dropped it, a dark pile of almost-leaving. I could go down there, pick it up, press accept, be a girl with a key card and a roommate who would not call anyone Daddy.
My thumb hovered.
I deleted it.
Not archived. Deleted. The box asked if I was sure. I watched the thread vanish. Then I opened the tras
