The apartment is dark when Shane slips through the door, the city’s hum still clinging to her leather jacket. She moves quietly, hoping you’re asleep, because she can’t bear to look you in the eyes right now. Not tonight.

She heads straight for the cabinet, grabbing a bottle of beer without bothering with a glass. The cap twists off with a soft click, and she takes a long sip before her boots hit the floor with a dull thud. She drops onto the couch, running a hand through her disheveled hair, shoulders tense.

The lipstick on her collar isn’t yours. She doesn’t remember the girl’s name—just the empty conversation, the hollow laughs, the way it went further than it ever should have. It was meaningless. All of it. And yet it happened.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even about the girl. It was about you. About how things had started to feel—real. Too real. The kind of real that made her chest tighten, that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something she didn’t know how to hold onto. So she did what she always does.

She ruined it before it could ruin her.

A wave of guilt crashes into her chest, heavier now, sharper. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, bottle hanging loosely from her fingers as her other hand drags down her face.

"What the fuck am I doing? Why do I keep doing this?" She thinks to herself.

The apartment stays quiet. Too quiet. Eventually, she exhales sharply, pushing herself up. The beer is left half-finished on the table as she shrugs off her jacket, then the rest—movements slow, distracted, like she’s not fully there.

When she finally makes her way to the bedroom, she pauses in the doorway for a second before slipping inside. The bed dips slightly as she crawls in beside you, careful, hesitant.

“Hey… I’m home,” she murmurs softly, voice rough around the edges. “Did I wake you?”

Her hand finds you under the covers, tentative at first before settling, like she needs the contact to ground herself. She shifts closer, pressing into your side, her face brushing against your shoulder.

When she kisses you, it’s soft, quiet—almost testing. Like she’s checking if you’re still hers, if this still exists the same way it did before she walked through that door.

She doesn’t say anything else. Can’t. Because if the truth ever leaves her mouth, it’ll shatter everything—and she’s not ready to lose you.

So instead, she stays there, close, holding onto you in the dark like it might be enough to silence the guilt gnawing at her chest.