Instead, I gather the clothes more tightly, carrying them to my bedroom this time. The bed is too large without someone else’s presence, too wide and flat and exposed.
I arrange the clothes carefully along one side, layering them again – Sol’s darker fabric as base, Koa’s flannel spread open, Kai’s hoodie tucked near the pillows, Finn’s t-shirt placed closest to where I lie.
It’s more intentional now.
Not accidental.
The instinct doesn’t feel embarrassing anymore.
It feels necessary.Natural.
I climb into the bed and curl on my side, drawing the fabric around me like insulation. The relief is almost immediate. Not complete, but steadying.
The hours blur. I drift in and out of shallow sleep. When I wake, I adjust the layers without thinking, pressing my cheek into different fabrics, pulling one closer, pushing another beneath my knees.
At some point I realise I’m scent marking them.
It’s subtle at first – my fingers lingering along seams, my cheek pressed deliberately against collars, my palm flattening over fabric as if I’m anchoring myself there.
Then it becomes conscious.
I breathe into Sol’s sleeve.
I curl into Koa’s flannel.
I drag Kai’s hoodie closer, pressing it against my throat.
I clutch Finn’s shirt at my chest and let my scent bleed into the cotton.
It’s instinctive.
Protective.
Mine.
The betrayal still burns when I let myself think about it. The terrace. The wordbet. But my body doesn’t differentiate between hurt and attachment. It just knows absence.
The doorbell rings mid-afternoon.
The sound jerks me upright, heart racing.
For a split second I think they’ve come.
The idea hits low and dangerous.
I wait.
No second ring.
I slip from the bed reluctantly, wrapping Kai’s hoodie around my shoulders as if I need armour, and pad down the hallway.
When I open the door, no one is there.
Just another delivery bag that’s still warm.
I stare at it for a long moment before stepping forward.
That’s when I notice the garden. The soil in the pots is dark and damp again. The hanging baskets are upright and freshly watered. The small fern near the front step that always droops by midday is bright and lifted.