The bar felt colder now. Or maybe it was just him. The music still pulsed through the speakers, the lights flickered in hues of red and violet, but Hugo felt numb. His hand still tingled from the impact—an impact he never should have made. His heart was beating too fast and too slow at once.
He sat in the same booth, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him, untouched since the moment everything fell apart.
Hugo leaned forward, pressing both elbows to the table, burying his face in his hands. The guilt hadn't fully sunk in—because his mind was too tangled in confusion. Why had he done that? Why had he acted with such certainty? The words he'd shouted, the accusations he'd hurled—they came from nowhere. From a place of anger, yes, but also fear. Fear that something inside him was out of control.
He hadn't even remembered the kiss. A complete blank.
He had accused her—without hesitation, without asking. And he hit her.
