Lyra's POV
The door clicked shut behind her.
She didn't move at first.
Keys still in hand, she stared at the scuffed floor of her apartment like it might offer instructions.
How to un-feel, un-remember, undo.
Then the aftershock hit.
Her knees gave slightly. She dropped her bag and keys in the tray by the door, leaned into the frame, and exhaled like she'd just run ten blocks on bare feet.
A sharp yowl shattered the silence.
"MrrroW."
Alexa.
The cat was planted beside her bowl, tail flicking with righteous fury. Eyes narrowed. Starved, in her own exaggerated opinion.
"I know," Lyra muttered, voice cracked and low.
She crossed the apartment, scooped kibble into the dish, and earned a cold shoulder and a twitch of Alexa's back as thanks.
Only when the cat's chewing filled the room did Lyra let herself go still again.
Her limbs were trembling. Her mouth felt dry. Her skin... off. Touched in a way it didn't know how to forget.
She didn't want to sit down. Didn't want to stay still. Movement felt safer. So she walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as the pipes would allow.
She stepped in.
At first, she scrubbed mechanically—arms, legs, back of her neck. Routine. But her hands wouldn't stop. She pressed harder. Steam blurred the edges of the mirror outside the glass. The heat soaked into her bones, but it didn't clean her.
Then her fingers slid over something.
A bruise. Small. Soft. Tender to the press.
She blinked through the fog, angling her shoulder toward the mirror. Just enough to catch a glimpse.
Another.
Faint discoloration traced the curve of her ribs. Lower, again, just above her hip. Then more, scattered across skin that had been kissed too carefully. His mouth had mapped her like she was something worth remembering.
Lyra dropped the washcloth and braced herself against the tile.
They weren't harsh. They weren't careless.
They were worse.
They were gentle.
Intimate in a way that stripped her defenses clean. She sank to her knees in the steam, let the water scald her shoulders, and pressed her forehead to the tile. No tears came. Just heat. Just silence.
When the water finally cooled, she stood on aching legs, dried herself off, and faced the mirror. Her hair clung damply to her temples. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot.
She didn't see herself.
Just the outline of someone who hadn't walked back from last night whole.
Her body wasn't broken. But it felt rearranged.
Later, dressed in a gray turtleneck and worn jeans, she turned her attention to the dress.
She laid it flat on the counter, smoothing out the wrinkles by hand. With a bowl of cool water and unscented soap, she gently blotted every part that had touched his skin. Or hers. The inner lining. The back seams. The hem. The neckline.
It felt like scrubbing out a story.
Next came the heels. She wiped the insides with cotton pads soaked in fabric mist, then buffed the patent leather with the edge of an old scarf.
She checked the clutch twice. Removing her lip balm, her folded ID, the backup vial she hadn't used.
She reached for the velvet box inside it, tucked in a side pocket where she'd kept her grandmother's earrings.
Only one inside.
Her breath caught. She checked again. Felt around the lining. Tilted the clutch under the lamp.
Nothing.
She hadn't put them back in the box after all. Her memory returned, shaky. She'd taken them off while dressing in the apartment, set them in her lap for just a second while she zipped the gown and reached for her shoes.
She'd meant to put them back.
She hadn't.
Her hands began to shake.
No. Not now. Not this.
Her grandmother's earrings. The only real thing she had left from before the city. Before Virelux. She'd worn them for courage. For connection. A quiet inheritance.
Gone.
She knew where it was. Of course she did.
On his bed.
Next to the man she should never have touched.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed her palms against the countertop and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
She didn't cry.
She couldn't afford to.
Instead, she finished the job. She worked slowly, obsessively, like each movement might erase not just the scent, but the memory itself. She rewiped the inside of the garment bag twice, then checked the seams of the dress under a reading lamp for any faint thread pulls or discoloration. Every time she thought she was done, she found something else, a crease too deep, a speck of dust clinging to the hem.
Her fingers cramped as she pressed the folds of the fabric between towels to wick out excess water. Then she steamed the dress by hanging it in the bathroom and turning the water on hot again. The shoes were next: she wrapped each heel in tissue, ran a cloth gently under the arch where a small smear of dirt had clung, and dried them with slow, careful circles like she was polishing glass.
It wasn't just about presentation.
It was control. Order. The illusion of having a grip on something, anything. After a night that had slipped out of her hands the second she made eye contact with him.
She resealed the clutch. Removed and rewrote her note to Dalia three separate times. In the end, she didn't include a note at all. Just the lie she'd wear on her face tomorrow when she returned everything.
Clean. Pressed. Perfect.
Like none of it had happened.
She folded it all carefully into Dalia's protective garment bag. She'd return it tomorrow with a rehearsed smile. Something vague and safe. She'd nod. Say thank you. Pretend it had been a boring night.
Then she left.
The pharmacy awaited.
The new suppressant vial was cold in her coat pocket by the time she walked out. Sealed. Potent. Reliable.
Too late.
She walked two blocks to the park, sat under a half-bare tree, and unwrapped a bagel. Her stomach rejected every bite. She ate anyway.
She had to feel normal again.
Joggers passed. Dogs barked. Somewhere, a saxophone played on a corner. The city kept moving.
She tilted her face toward the sun, just briefly.
Then lifted her hand to brush hair behind her ear.
Her fingers froze.
Again.
Only one earring.
Confirmation.
Not a mistake. Not a misplacement.
Loss.
Her breath caught, sharp and final.
She didn't look around. Didn't check her bag again.
She knew.
She'd left it behind.
Next to the man she should never have touched.
And now, part of her past, something precious, something hers. Was in his hands.
And she didn't know if he'd even recognize it.