The morning is quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that suffocates, that wraps around your throat and presses against your ribs until it’s hard to breathe.

Robin stirs beside you, shifting under the sheets. You feel the dip of the mattress, the rustling of fabric as she rolls onto her back, exhaling a slow, shaky breath. You keep your eyes on the ceiling, heart hammering so hard you’re sure she can hear it.

Neither of you speak.

Your skin still burns where her hands were. Your lips are still swollen from her kisses. The weight of last night sits heavy in the air between you—thick, unspoken, inescapable.

You don’t know what you were expecting.

Maybe you thought she’d wake up, turn to you, smile in that awkward, dorky way of hers and say something stupid to break the tension. Maybe you thought this would be the moment everything changed, the moment she finally let herself have this, have you.

But she doesn’t.

She just lays there, breathing slow, staring at the ceiling like she’s anywhere but here.

You risk a glance at her. Her jaw is tight, her fingers clenching the blanket like she’s holding on for dear life.

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

You should’ve known better.

You should’ve expected the regret.

You swallow the lump in your throat, pushing the sheets back, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You need to get out of here before she says it—before she ruins this with an apology.

Robin moves behind you, the bed shifting as she props herself up on one elbow. For a second, you think she might stop you.

She doesn’t.

All she says is, “Hey.”

It’s barely a whisper, hoarse and uneven.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You can’t do this.

“Forget it,” you mutter, standing, reaching for your clothes.

Robin doesn’t argue.

She doesn’t stop you.

And that’s how you know this was a mistake.