Her pulse thudded against her ribs as she lay there, acutely aware of every inch of bare skin beneath the sheet. The streetlamp’s light moved slightly with the sway of branches outside, bending across Isabel’s spine like a slow caress.
Victoria couldn’t stay.
She knew herself too well. This—lying here in the predawn with someone who could strip her bare in more ways than one—wasn’t sustainable. She didn’t do vulnerability. Not like this.
Carefully, deliberately, she eased herself back from the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped and creaked softly under her weight, and she froze, listening. Isabel shifted, murmuring something unintelligible into her pillow, but didn’t wake.
Victoria’s feet found the floor—cool hardwood under her toes.
The apartment was shadowed. Still. Boxes sat stacked along the far wall, some open, some sealed, the evidence of a recent move scattered in untidy piles. Clothing trailed in a haphazard path from the bedroom door to where Victoria stood, the trail of their undoing. Her jacket was draped over the back of a chair. One heel lay overturned near the doorway.
She crouched to pick it up, wincing at the faint pop of her knee. Fifty-five years old and still able to run down a suspect in boots and a blazer, but mornings like this reminded her she wasn’t twenty-five anymore. She set the heel upright and began gathering the rest of her clothes with a soldier’s efficiency, pausing only to listen for any change in Isabel’s breathing.
Once dressed, she glanced around for her bag. It was half-hidden beneath the chair, one strap tangled with Isabel’s leather jacket. She eased it free, careful not to disturb anything else.
She should go.
Shewouldgo.
But she couldn’t just vanish without a word—not when Isabel had trusted her enough to…
Her jaw tightened.Trust.That was what last night had been, wasn’t it? Not just a surrender of control, but a deliberate choice to trust someone to hold it. She’d done it without thinking, without weighing the risk. And now, in the morning light—or what little light from the streetlamp filtered through those blinds—she felt exposed.
Her gaze swept the apartment for something to write on. No pad on the coffee table, no envelopes by the door. Just the evidence of a life mid-transition—boxes labeled in black marker, a jacket hanging crooked over a chair, the faint smell of cardboard and takeout.
On the kitchen counter, a single crumpled takeout receipt peeked from under an empty mug.
She approached slowly, as though the distance between bedroom and kitchen might somehow buy her more time. Her fingers brushed the mug aside, lifting the receipt with care. It was flimsy, the ink on the front already fading. She flipped it over to the blank side.
The only pen she could find was a thick black Sharpie in a chipped ceramic jar by the sink. She pulled it free, the cap giving a soft pop.
She stood there, unmoving.
Her reflection stared back at her in the dark kitchen window—hair mussed from sleep, shirt unbuttoned to the collarbone, bare feet on cool tile. She barely recognized herself.
What could she possibly write?
Her mind ran through a dozen options, discarding each one in turn.Thank you for last nightfelt too soft.This was a mistakewas too harsh.I’ll see you at workwas too clinical, as if the past hours hadn’t happened at all.
Every version of the truth felt dangerous.
She lowered the marker to the page. Paused. Raised it again.
Her chest was tight, her breath shallow. The apartment was so quiet she could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator and, under it, the slow, steady rhythm of Isabel’s breaths from the other room.
Victoria closed her eyes. She couldn’t take that sound with her.
She wrote quickly, the block letters too heavy from the thick tip of the Sharpie.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this.
When she set the marker down, she stared at the words until they blurred. For one irrational second, she wanted to crumple the receipt, slip back into bed, and pretend she’d never thought about leaving.
Instead, she flattened the paper and placed it where Isabel would see it as soon as she rose.
Her fingers lingered on it—once, twice—before she made herself let go.
The apartment seemed even quieter now, as if holding its breath. Victoria glanced toward the bedroom one last time. Isabel hadn’t moved, still sprawled in the fractured light, her breathing slow and even.
