In the kitchen, I unpack the groceries with mechanical precision—coffee beans into the canister, bread on the counter, wine tucked away for later—my mind replaying the scene from the bedroom like a cruel loop. Cyrus's voice, those words meant for me, spilled out for her. "Fuck, you feel so good... I can't stop this." My hands tremble slightly as I fold the empty bags, jealousy coiling in my chest like a vine, tight and th...