Vivienne kept staring at the fading sun. She lay on André's rumpled bed, sheets tangled around them, his hands tracing slow, gentle patterns along her skin. But she didn't feel any of it. Not his soft kisses on her shoulder, not the way his fingers brushed along her ribs, not even the warmth of his body pressed against hers. Her eyes were fixed outside, glued to the orange and gold streaks bleeding across the horizon.
Maybe it wasn't really the sun she was watching. Maybe it wasn't light at all. Maybe it was a memory, sharp and painful, like glass pressed into her chest, a memory she couldn't shake. Her lips were parted slightly, but no sound came. Her body stayed still beneath André, perfectly pliant, perfectly silent. He could feel her tension, the cold stiffness in her spine, the absence of response, and it gnawed at him. Yet he didn't move. He stayed there, pressing soft, almost intimate kisses along her arm and collarbone, watching for any flicker of warmth.
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