Dominic's POV

The thing about guilt is, it doesn’t announce itself. It creeps.

Like fog. Like rot under polished wood.

And lately, I’ve been smelling it everywhere.

It infuses all things into early morning coffees that grow cold too fast, into rides to work as penance, into the long silences in otherwise short conversations. It came in the small silences. In the spaces where my laughter should have been. In the way Serena would look at me along the dinner table, eyes soft ...