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He steps back from the coffin fast.

Too late.

Far too fucking late.

Trixie yanks her tank down and reaches for her shorts, face red now for a reason that has nothing to do with sex.

“I didn’t know,” she says.

Not to Bitter.

To me.

I believe her.

That might be the strangest part.

“I know.”

My voice sounds normal.

I am proud of that.

Bitter drags his jeans up, but his eyes never leave mine. His face is not blank.

I wish it were.

I see everything there. Regret. Fear. Shame.

And beneath all of it, something stubborn enough to ruin us both.

I wait.

Again.

God, I hate that I wait.

This morning I waited for him to tell me the club had not mattered more. Now I wait for him to cross the room, say my name, tell me he made a terrible decision because he was angry or scared or drunk or broken.

Not because any excuse could fix this.

Because I need to know whether he wants to.

One second passes.

Then another.

Then a third.

Bitter does not move.

Trixie climbs out of the coffin and snatches up her shorts. She looks furious now.

At him.

Good.

Someone should be.