The apartment smelled like coffee gone cold and a life that had been disturbed. Courtney sat on the floor with her back pressed to the couch, the cushion indenting behind her like proof that someone had been there; empty mugs and a small scatter of clothes lay where the night had been. Her body ached in an unfamiliar way — not simply from closeness, but from consequence. Every small sound in the building made her look up as if someone else would walk through the door and make everything right.
She told him then. Not with a flourish, not with loud defiance, but in the raw, brittle timbre of someone who had finally bared a fevered truth. "Sean. We need to stop." The words came out like an admission and a command, all at once. "I can't keep—this. I can't be with you like this. You use me when it benefits you. I can't—" Her voice cracked on the last syllable, and for a moment she found herself pleading more than declaiming.
