The way her fingers curled so comfortably into the fabric of his shirt didn’t look like an accident.

The digital clock on my bedside table showed eight in the morning.

Sunday sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting thin white stripes across the gray duvet cover.

Ethan was already awake, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his phone in his hand.

“Have you texted her yet?” he asked.

I sat up and pulled the sheets to my waist.

I rubbed my collarbone, tracing the line of the bone down to my shoulder.