Sam's house pulled me back like a held‑in breath.

Almost‑winter pressed against every window - early dusk, bare branches scraping glass, that sharp late‑year chill that made the radiators tick softly on and off. Somewhere past mid‑November, the calendar thinning slowly toward my birthday; no one had spoken the date aloud, yet it hung there all the same. I dropped my bag by the doorway, let Rye trot loose across the woven rug, then perched on the edge of our bed still wearing my coat.

That club‑room video kept replaying behind my eyelids: Susan's playful dare, the hundred‑dollar bet, that stranger's mouth I'd only later learned belonged to Ben. Sam's...