𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The house was still.

The kind of silence that comes only after midnight—thick, endless, and too aware of itself.

You slipped carefully out of Lyle’s arms, the sheets rustling just enough to make you pause. His hand fell against the mattress, fingers twitching slightly before going still again. He didn’t wake. You leaned back against the headboard, pulling the blanket up over your chest, the cool air brushing against your bare skin.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint spill of light from the street outside. It cut across the bed, over Lyle’s shoulders, the curve of his neck, the mess of brown hair resting on the pillow. He looked peaceful like that—soft, steady, completely still.

You stared at him for a long time.

You told yourself he couldn’t have done it. That Lyle—the man who kissed your temple and whispered you’re safe now when you were shaking—couldn’t have been the same person who pulled the trigger. You wanted to believe that more than anything. You needed to.

But a part of you didn’t.

That small, quiet voice in the back of your mind wouldn’t let you forget the things that didn’t add up—the way he’d been calm when the police came, how quickly the tears dried after the funeral, how easily he slept now. You’d never seen him this relaxed before. Not before the murders.

You thought about how he’d changed these past few months. How he’d been sweeter, more attentive. How he’d started spending money like it was nothing—new suits, dinners, jewelry, weekends by the ocean. He touched you more often, held you longer, told you he loved you with a kind of ease that used to feel impossible. You felt closer to him than ever.

And you hated yourself for it.

Because it felt wrong to be happy now. Wrong to love him harder when your gut whispered that he wasn’t innocent. That maybe, deep down, he didn’t regret it.

You looked at him again. At the soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the bruise-like half-moons under his eyes. He looked like someone who had finally stopped fighting.

Your throat tightened. You pulled the blanket tighter around you, trying to quiet your thoughts, to stop looking at him like he was a stranger.

Then his lashes flickered. His breathing changed.

He stirred, his voice low and rough from sleep, cutting through the silence like it had weight.

“Baby,” he murmured, his eyes half-open now, looking up at you. “Why are you up so late?”