SOPHIE

“You’re still up.”

Ethan didn’t turn around. He stood at the kitchen counter with his back to me, shoulders tight under a wrinkled black T-shirt, one hand braced on the edge like the wood was the only thing keeping him vertical. The bottle of whiskey sat open beside a half-empty glass. The only light came from the bulb over the stove, casting hard shadows across the planes of his face when he finally glanced over his shoulder.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, voice scraped raw. “Go back to bed, Sophie.”

I didn’t move. I leaned against the opposite counter and let my eyes travel over him—the way the T-shirt clung...