He came in smelling like the night—
not the night they shared,
but one he made without her.
His skin was still warm
like he hadn’t been alone
for hours.

She didn’t speak.
Just watched him walk in,
too casual.
He kissed her
like he always did,
and that’s when it hit her.

Another mouth
was still on his.

Not a trace.
Not a ghost.
She tasted her.
On his tongue.
In his breath.
Between his teeth.

Sticky.
Sweet.
Wrong.

Her.
In her house.
In her bed.
On him.

She didn’t need proof.
She had it.
On her lips.
In her throat.
A flavor that didn’t belong,
soft and sour and real.

His hands touched her like he was still remembering—
hips in the wrong place,
fingers too slow,
too careful,
like he thought he could wash it off
by pretending hard enough.

She pulled away.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t slap.
Just stared.

“You taste like her,”
she said.

And his mouth opened
but nothing came out.
Because there was nothing to say
when you bring someone else
home
in your mouth.