I woke up the next morning feeling heavy. Not sore. Not rested.

Heavy.

The room was bright, too bright, and sunlight cut across the bed in clean, unapologetic lines. The sheets were smooth. Not perfectly made, and not destroyed either. Unlike last night.

Then, my body remembered

The grip at my hips.

The reckless rhythm.

The way he said he wasn’t done. And my pulse quickened.

I reached for my phone and found it at the far end of my drawer, which is unusual.

James probably took the phone, I thought. I wouldn't have kept it that far. When I picked up the phone, I could instantly tell that it...