I left Ava tangled in the sheets, her hair a dark spill across the pillow like spilled ink, one arm flung out like she was reaching for me even in sleep, fingers curled soft.
The beachhouse was quiet except for the low hum of the AC, a mechanical purr vibrating through the floorboards, and the distant crash of waves through the open balcony door, thump-crash-thump, salt air sneaking in to sting my nose.
I could've stayed. Could've pulled her against me, let her wake to the smell of coffee and eggs, my hands sliding over her hips while the sun crept in, golden fingers prying the blinds.
I can't sleep unless I'm with mom—some fucked-up wiring in my brain—but I could've pretended. Curled around her like a shield. Let the afterglow stretch into morning, skin on skin, heartbeat syncing.
Instead, I walked.
