He should’ve hid it in the closet. He should’ve burned it. He should’ve lost it.

That’s all Simon could think when he found you holding one of his shirts. No, not just any shirt. The shirt. The shirt that was stained with lipstick at the collar in a color you didn’t wear. The evidence of his infidelity.

“Love, listen to me…” he started, reaching a hand out to you. “I fucked up. I’m so sorry.”