NOLAN POV

Sleep wasn’t even an option. Not tonight.

I sat at the kitchen counter, staring at the half-empty mug in front of me. The tea I made for her, the same rooibos blend my father used to brew, had gone cold. I hadn’t touched it. Maybe because some twisted part of me felt like I had no right to drink it. Like even now, even after everything, I was trespassing on something that wasn’t mine.

It’s funny. You can share a roof with someone, breathe the same air, pass them the ...