Jake texted me last night.

Just saw someone wearing that red dress. Thought of you.

That's all it said. No "hey," no "how've you been." Just a match tossed into the dry grass.

I stared at the screen for ten minutes. Didn't text back. Didn't delete it either.

William made pancakes that morning. Blueberries, just the way I like them. He kissed my cheek while the coffee brewed, and I smiled like my chest wasn't full of smoke.

He doesn't know Jake reached out. And I don't plan to tell him.

It's not a secret, I tell myself. It's just... nothing.

Except nothing shouldn't feel like this.

That night, William falls asleep with a book on his chest, mouth slightly open, breath warm against my shoulder. I watch him, memorize the slope of his nose, the scar on his chin, the way his hand curls instinctively toward mine even in sleep.

He loves me. Even when I'm hard to love.

I slide out of bed quietly, heart buzzing like a wasp in a jar. I don't know what I'm doing until I'm doing it - until I'm in the living room with the lights off and Jake's name lighting up my screen again.

Red. Meet me for coffee? Just coffee. Promise.

I stare at it for a long time. The words feel harmless. Innocent, even. But Jake was never innocent. And I was never strong where he was concerned.

Still, I let the idea bloom. Just for a second.

Coffee. A five-dollar decision with thousand-dollar consequences.

I imagine it - seeing him again. The way he'd smile, smug and dangerous. The way my body would betray me before I even opened my mouth.

I imagine what it would cost me.

William waking up alone, wondering where I went. William seeing the truth in my eyes before I could even lie. William walking away, because he deserves someone who doesn't flinch every time a ghost whispers her name.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

Then I power the phone off.

Not just the screen - the whole thing. Silence.

I sit there for a while in the dark. Breathing. Shaking. Mourning the girl who still wants the fire, even when she knows how it ends.

And then I go back to bed.

Back to William.

Back to the man who doesn't just love me when I'm bright and easy - but when I'm messy, tangled, and torn in two.

The sheets are still warm when I slip under them. William stirs, brow twitching like he's halfway between dreams and waking.

"You okay?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah," I whisper. "Just needed some water."

He hums, pulling me closer without opening his eyes. His arm drapes over my waist like it belongs there. Like I belong there.

And maybe I do.

But my heart is loud tonight. Beating out questions I don't want answers to.

It happens later, when I'm alone in the shower.

Steam curling around me. Water hot enough to burn.

I lean my forehead against the tile, eyes closed, and that's when it hits me - the memory. Uninvited. Unforgiving.

Jake. In the backseat of his car. Rain lashing the windows like the sky was trying to tear us apart.

I was in his lap, legs wrapped around him, his hands in my hair like he was trying to possess me. My dress shoved up, panties somewhere on the floor, the windows fogged so thick the whole world disappeared.

"Tell me you're mine," he'd growled against my throat, teeth scraping skin.

And I had.

God help me - I had.

Because in that moment, I was. Completely. Shamelessly. His.

He kissed me like he hated me for making him feel, and I kissed him back like I needed the punishment.

That kind of wanting - it doesn't fade. It carves its name in you.

I bite my lip, breathing shallow, heat pooling low and dangerous. My hand drifts down and I stop myself - fingers curled tight, like I can wring the need right out of me.

I hate him for still living in my bones.

I hate that my body remembers what my heart worked so hard to forget.

I shut the water off, trembling. Not from cold.

I wrap myself in a towel and stare at my reflection.

Flushed. Raw.

Haunted.

I tell myself to stop thinking about him.

But memory is a cruel thing - and Jake is stitched into mine like a secret under the skin.

I drop the towel, still damp, still aching, and slide between the sheets of the bed I share with a man who loves me right.

William's in the other room, still working. Quiet. Steady.

I close my eyes and try to think of him - of the way he kisses my shoulder in the morning, of the way his hands are always gentle. But it's Jake who slips in instead, uninvited.

The way he used to press me up against the door the second we got inside, like waiting would kill him. His mouth hot and rough on my neck, his hands bold, possessive, everywhere.

"You're mine, Red," he'd whisper, voice a dark promise. "Say it."

And I did. Every time. With my body. With my breath. With the way I begged for him without ever saying a word.

I press my thighs together, but it's no use. My hand slides down, slow and guilty, as if it knows the difference between what I want and what's right.

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.

But I do.

Eyes closed, breath catching, I let the memory take me for a moment - just one. The edge of his jaw. The press of his hips. That low growl in his throat when I said his name.

It doesn't take long. It never did with Jake.

When it's over, I lie there, still panting, chest rising and falling like I've run from something I couldn't quite escape.

Shame settles in beside me like smoke.

I roll onto my side and pull the covers up to my chin, cold now.

The room is quiet. Still. And I can't help but wonder if William will feel it later, when he slides into bed - that something's changed. That even without touching Jake, I let him back in.

Only for a moment.

But sometimes a moment is all it takes.

The guilt creeps in slowly. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a dull, heavy ache in my chest - like I've let something sacred slip through my fingers.

I didn't see him. I didn't text him. I didn't do anything real.

But still, I feel hollowed out. Like I borrowed something that didn't belong to me anymore.

I curl up tight, knees to chest, the blanket pulled over my head like it can hide me from the truth of myself.

Tears come quietly.

No sobs. No gasps.

Just a slow leak of something I can't name. Shame. Grief. Longing.

For who I used to be. For who I want to be.

For the girl who could love the man in the other room without ghosts clawing at her in the dark.

Eventually, I fall asleep like that - curled into myself, wet lashes sticking to my cheeks.

Morning comes too bright.

The light through the window is gentle, but I wince anyway. My head aches in that way it always does after I cry myself to sleep - like regret got into my bloodstream.

William's already up. I can hear him in the kitchen, humming softly. The smell of coffee wafts through the apartment.

I sit up slowly, blanket still wrapped around me. My throat feels raw. My chest tight.

I did nothing wrong.

And yet...

I feel like I cheated.

Not with my body. But with something deeper. Something that should've been his alone.

I get out of bed and make my way down the hall, every step heavier than the last.

When I see William - still in pajama pants, hair a little messy, coffee in hand - I want to say something.

But I don't.

I just watch him for a second, memorizing him all over again.

And then, finally, I walk into the room and let him pull me into his arms like nothing happened.

Even if something did.

Even if it was only my thoughts and memories.