The next day

Jess’ eyes open to see the clock showing 6am. It’s really early and she’s barely slept but her mouth is really dry.

She pads barefoot across the cold tile, the tiny tube top doing little to cover her, the thong riding high on her hips. Her hair is a mess, mascara smudged from the night before. She looks like she went to war and lost—or won, depending on how you look at it.

She fills a glass at the sink, drinks half of it in one go, then sets it down and grips the counter, head bowed.

The images flash behind her eyelids—Chad's hands, his mouth, his fingers inside her. Joe's trusting face in sleep. The way she'd changed her clothes like a criminal hiding evidence.

She stares at her reflection in the dark window above the sink. Sees a girl she's still getting to know.

"...What the fuck did I do?"

She whispers it to the empty kitchen. The house creaks around her, settling, as if answering.

She finishes the water, rinses the glass, sets it in the sink. Then she turns, ready to go back to bed, back to Joe's arms, back to pretending.

She stops.

Chad's silhouette is visible through the living room archway—asleep on the pull-out couch, one arm thrown over his head, the sheet tangled around his waist. The grey dawn light catches the lines of his chest, the same chest she'd pressed her palm against hours ago.

She stands there, caught between the bedroom and the living room, the choice hanging in the air like a held breath.