Elvis sat motionless in the dim glow of his apartment, the weight of everything that had happened settling heavily on his chest. His fingers traced the edge of his coffee cup absently, though he wasn't paying attention to it. His mind was elsewhere, back on that night—the night that he would never be able to forget in haste, even if he tried. The night he crossed a line he shouldn't cross, he couldn't undo what had happened, and his heart still hadn't caught up to the consequences of what he had done.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to let the flood of memories subside, but they came crashing back as if he had opened a door he couldn't shut. The scene replayed over and over in his mind, as fresh as the moment it happened. Lisa, drunk and vulnerable, her eyes glassy with too many drinks, and him—him—standing there, feeling every piece of his resolve slipping away.
