Lanse glanced over the edge of the bed, his gaze lingering on the crumpled pile of clothes. He could just grab them, pull them on, and be gone before Tess even noticed. That was the plan. No goodbyes. No explanations.
But then he heard it—soft at first, then unmistakable. The sound of Tess crying.
It wasn't the kind of delicate crying people did for show. It was raw. Her face was buried in the sheet, shoulders trembling in a steady rhythm. The fabric beneath her was already damp, patches of it darkened where her tears had soaked through.
The sound twisted in his chest. It reminded him of a different bed, a different night—the one after his brother left him at the orphanage. He had cried the same way, into the same kind of scratchy, indifferent fabric, knowing no one would come.
