POV: Aurora
The key weighs more than the entire apartment.
I have it in the lock, but I don't turn it. The metal is cold; my hands are too hot. The heat is no longer "I'm hot for no reason." It's a thick pulse in my skin, in my throat, in my belly.
I could lock the door, turn off my phone, and pretend it's anxiety. Cold shower, tea, bed. Wait.
I drop the key and pick up the phone. Dante's last message is still on the screen:
"If it gets worse, call me. You don't have to deal with this alone."
I don't want to be the intern who runs to the boss for everything. I don't want to owe him anything else.
But I remember the bus. The guy's hand on my waist. My body leaning toward him without asking. The corner. The dizziness. Dante's car.
I type with trembling fingers:
"I can't control it. It's getting worse."
Send.
The response is a call.
"Dante Noir," he says.
"It's Aurora," I reply. "I'm in my apartment." I closed the door. But it's worse.
