After the intensity of the day, a strange, uneasy quiet settled between them—less awkward than it was heavy, the silence of two people trying to process too much, too fast.
Sasha had turned on the television for Ross before heading to the bathroom, hoping the noise would fill the stillness.
She needed space. Time. In the bath, she sat submerged beneath the steaming water, the soft scent of lavender soap curling into the air.
She closed her eyes, trying to release the tension still coiled tight in her shoulders.
Her mind replayed everything—Wesley's voice, the gunshots, Ross's calm, the violence that followed, and the way he'd held her afterward like she was something fragile.
By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a thick robe with her hair damp and clinging softly to her neck, the clock read just shy of 8 p.m.
