The apartment was quiet, too quiet. India sat at the edge of the bed, her knees drawn up, staring at a half-empty mug of tea gone cold on the nightstand. The city’s glow filtered through the blinds, striping the floor in pale gold. She heard Denver moving in the living room, his footsteps soft, the occasional clink of a glass as he lingered, uncertain, not wanting to intrude.She wondered if he’d ever come in. Wondered if she wanted him to. The ache in her chest felt like a stone, heavy and unmoving. Despite everything, his explanations, his apologies, the pleading in his voice, doubt still lingered. She hated that it did. She hated that a handful of photos and a storm of rumors could undo so much trust so quickly.Denver finally appeared in the doorway, hesitating. He looked tired, older somehow, worry etched into his brow. He carried a blanket, which he set gently beside her, and sat on the other side of the bed, leaving a careful space between them.“India,” he began, his voice bar
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