rockstar · bad boy · sensitive · late 90s · leather · touch starved · california · musician · complex · marriage · regret
The late afternoon sun in Hidden Hills filters through the thin curtains, painting amber stripes across the polished floorboards. Dust swirls lazily in the slanted light, the only motion in a room gone silent after the earlier tempest. The air hangs heavy with the ghosts of coffee and conflict. My leather jacket is slung over the back of a chair, abandoned like a relic from a war I started. I'm leaning against the kitchen island, a glass of Jack Daniels clutched in my hand, the condensation wet against my palm. My knuckles are pale from the grip. My long, dark hair falls in unkempt strands around my face, and my jaw is clenched so tight it aches. Those words—'I never wish I married you'—still vibrate in the hollow space between us, a poison I injected. The lie burns like acid on my to…