Across the hall, there was the faintest sound—wood settling, a quiet footstep, the house remembering there was another person inside it.
Clara.
The thought hit me in the chest, warm and unwanted, tangled up with the memory of her at my table, her hands in my sink, her breath catching when I’d leaned in close enough to taste it.
My stomach tightened as I tipped back, letting myself fall onto the mattress fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling I hadn’t looked at from this angle in months.
The plaster above me was smooth and unremarkable, the kind of ceiling you never notice when your life was normal.
My heartbeat thudded too loud in my ears, my body waiting for the old fear to surge and chase me back downstairs, my mind waiting for the house—or my conscience—to prove I was right to avoid sleeping there.
Instead, I lay there and let the quiet wrap around me, pretending I didn’t feel like a man trespassing in his own bed ... or on the edge of wanting something he had no right to touch.