The clock read 2:11 a.m.
The sheets were too suffocating.
She'd kicked them off twice, pulled them back over her legs, twisted herself into the wrong side of the bed, and even tried counting backwards from 500 in French. Nothing worked.
Her head was full of images of Samantha's smug face, Daniel's voice echoing in the back of her skull: "You're spiraling." As if he had the monopoly on self-awareness.
Regina rolled onto her side with a groan, her fingers curling into the pillowcase like it had personally wronged her. Sleep wasn't happening. Not with her ego bruised, her heart hollowed out, and their last fight playing on loop like a cruel little indie film that thought it was deeper than it was.
She needed water. A distraction.
Pushing the covers off, she slid out of bed, grabbed the silk robe slung across the armchair, navy, stupidly soft and padded down the hallway, barefoot and restless.
Halfway to the kitchen, she heard it, the low hum of a familiar voice.
