No second Ding. Only the echo of the first settling deep in my bones.
Draven was gone. The door had clicked shut ages ago.
I should have moved — washed up, changed, burned that ruined dress.
Instead I stayed exactly where I was.
My feet dragged toward the bathroom first — drawn by one thought: water. Not to clean… but to catch one last glimpse of him. I knew exactly what I'd find: shirt half‑discarded, jaw tight, scrubbing hard to strip every trace of strawberry and sugar from skin. If I stepped in now, the air would thicken instantly again. He'd order me away. And I… probably wouldn't obey.
And that was exactly the danger.
Neither of us knew where the line lay anymore. Cross that threshold, and we'd only find the edge by falling straight over it.
I turned away instead.
Bed was closer anyway.
