I woke up alone.
Sunlight cut across the bed in clean white lines. The sheets still smelled like him—soap, skin, s*x. My body ached in places I hadn’t known could ache, a deep, pleasant soreness between my thighs that made me press them together just to feel it again.
Liam was gone. The bathroom door stood open, the shower dry. Downstairs I heard the low clink of a mug, the quiet hum of the coffee machine.
I sat up slowly. My clothes were still in a small pile on the floor where I’d dropped them yesterday. I left them there.
I found one of his shirts in the walk-in closet—soft gray, long enough to hit mid-thigh—and pulled it on without buttoning it. The fabric smelled like him. I walked downstairs barefoot, the cool floors grounding me.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the count
