#messyromance

I said the wrong name.

Not loudly. Just enough that she heard it— the hush of it against her bare shoulder.

“Elena…”

And I felt her body tense. Cassandra. The woman I should be obsessed with. The one who checks every box.

But boxes don’t kiss you like you meant it. Boxes don’t argue in your kitchen about politics and then kiss you harder because of it.

Elena does.

Or did.

God. What is wrong with me?

She rolled away. Said she had an early morning.

I laid there, still aching.

Not for Cassandra. Not for comfort.