Henry's POV...
I left the room as fast as I could without running, the soles of my shoes making no sound on the polished floor, a ghost already retreating from the living.
The door clicked shut behind me, a sound as soft and final as a guillotine. I stood there for a second, my back pressed hard against the solid wood, as if I could physically stop the scene inside from imprinting itself any deeper onto my soul.
I was just breathing. In. Out. A ragged, mechanical rhythm. Trying to scrub the image of her from behind my eyelids, but it was burned in, a brand.
Her waking up. A slow, languid stretch under the sheets. Her hand, sleep-warm, reaching for him. Not groping, not desperate, but with a quiet, inherent certainty. Pressing her face into the hollow of his shoulder like he was the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.
She didn't even see me.
Didn't notice I was there, a statue in the doorway. Didn't feel my eyes on her, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.
