Evening had fallen over the house like a hush no one wanted to acknowledge.
Benita stood at the full-length mirror in the guest room, adjusting a single gold earring with slow, methodical fingers. Her dress—simple, elegant, a shade too confident—felt suddenly heavier on her skin. She wasn’t sure if it was the silence outside her door, or the silence still ringing in her chest.
What did she expect? That he’d stop her? That he’d apologize?
He already said the kiss meant nothing. He already took it back.
She grabbed her purse, drew in a breath she didn’t feel, and stepped out into the hallway just as footsteps echoed from the other end.
Cillian.
They stopped at the same time.
He was in a crisp black button-down and a dark jacket, hair pushed back carelessly like he’d run a hand through it a thousand times. His eyes flicked up—then away—then back again, unable to hold still.
Benita swallowed hard. So did he.
They had just broken up—if you could call it that. So why did it still feel like
