Marcus
I hear the bathroom door click shut, and I stretch out across her bed like I own it.
God, she's going to kill me. And I deserve it.
But I flew across the country, sat through two layovers, and broke into her house using a rock that honestly insulted both of us. She's going to listen to what I have to say.
Even if she pelts me with a curling iron first.
I look around her room. It smells like her. Warm. Soft. Slightly floral. There's a cardigan tossed over the chair, a book with a cracked spine on the nightstand, a little dish full of jewelry.
The bathroom door creaks open. I sit up a little straighter, but don't bother hiding the fact that I'm still very naked under the blanket. She emerges looking flushed, eyes sharp, jaw tight, like she's gearing up for war.
Good. Let her fight me.
I can take it.
"I should call the cops," she says, arms crossed.
"You won't," I reply calmly, watching her like she's the last thing tethering me to Earth.
