Abby The once golden glow of the candles seems dull now. The shadows in the room stretch longer, a stark contrast to the beautifully set table, pristine and untouched. The wine, once poured with anticipation, sits still, a silent witness to my growing anxiety. The aroma of the truffle oil, once

I’m mid-way through this cathartic—albeit wasteful—process when an idea, perhaps influenced by the wine, hits me. “Karl,” I say aloud, the name acting like a beacon in the fog of my anger. Karl had always been different—reliable, true to his word. He’s an asshole, but in those ways, he’s the c

“I knew that you wanted this, Abby,” he murmurs. “I know you’ve missed me. Adam can’t hold a candle to what you and I had.” My heart wrenches; Karl is right. The wetness between my legs only further proves that point. I want Karl, want to relive what we felt for each other before, want to make my

Abby Pushing the restaurant’s door open, I’m immediately enveloped by the scent of fresh bread and brewing coffee. The day beckons, promising a hustle that I’m both dreading and anticipating. Each wooden table is adorned with a fresh bunch of flowers, the gentle hum of the morning preparations

Abby Just as I’m leaning forward to make sense of the strange spark in the back of the oven, something ignites. I jump back with a yelp just as the heat nearly consumes me. My heart races as the orange flames dance menacingly from the oven, cutting off the symphony of our dinner rush with its