-Sloane Pierce:
Morning light crept through the thin curtains of my bedroom, pale gold spilling over the floorboards, the kind of warmth that should've felt like comfort. Instead, it pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating, dragging me into another day where my thoughts refused to behave.
I went through the motions like always—shower, clothes, hair pulled back tight, scrubs neat, shoes laced. Everything precise. Everything controlled. The hospital corridors didn't forgive sloppiness. My life didn't allow it.
But no matter how many times I tightened the knot of my ponytail or smoothed the wrinkle from my scrub top, I couldn't smooth away the image of her. Roxy.
Her laugh had rooted itself in my chest, low and dangerous, curling around my ribs like smoke. Her mouth—God, the feel of her mouth—was still on mine, no matter how many times I rinsed, brushed, scrubbed, like my skin remembered her even when I begged it to forget.
