The days after that night in the garage blurred into a haze of regret and reckless replay. I woke up the next morning in my apartment across town, sheets tangled around my legs, the ache between my thighs a vivid reminder.
Adrian's c*m had dried sticky on my skin, and I showered it away, but the memory clung...his confused eyes widening in recognition, the way he'd whispered my name like a curse.
No texts came. No calls.
Glenda posted a bubbly i********: story about the block party, tagging me with heart emojis, oblivious as ever. I liked it, heart pounding, and went about my week painting in my studio, strokes furious and abstract, channeling the chaos.
But the silence from him? It gnawed at me. I'd see them at the grocery store mid-week...me grabbing wine, them in the produce aisle,
