By midnight, she said she knew the hotel I was staying at.

Then she asked if I wanted to walk on the beach.

I should have gone back to my room.

I did not.

We walked barefoot along the shoreline, letting the waves cover our silence. The night air was warm, the beach nearly empty, and everything about that moment felt like a bad idea pretending to be harmless. We talked about regret. About time. About how badly we had both handled the end of us. At one point, Sarah stopped walking and looked at me with an expression I had not seen in years.

Not anger.

Not sadness.

Something deeper.

Something tired.

Something unfinished.

I kissed her first.

That is the truth.

After that, we went back to my hotel room and did what people do when they are lonely, vulnerable, and trying too hard to ignore the past. We told ourselves it was just one night. Just one mistake. Just something that would disappear before morning.

I wanted to believe that.

Then dawn came.

I woke up later than I meant to, sunlight cutting through the curtains. Sarah was standing by the window wearing one of my shirts, looking out at the city like she was waiting for bad news. For a few seconds, everything was quiet enough to feel almost peaceful.

Then I saw the bed.

There was a red stain on the sheet.

Not huge.

Not dramatic.

But enough to make my stomach tighten.

Sarah noticed my face before I said anything. She moved fast, too fast, pulling the sheet toward her and folding it over itself.

“Don’t,” she said.

Her voice was low.

Sharp.

Nothing like the calm Sarah I remembered.

I sat up.

“What happened?”

She shook her head, still not looking at me.

“Nothing. Just let it go.”

That answer did not sound normal.

It sounded practiced.