Luka
I heard the door open and knew it was her before I turned around.
I’d know that tread anywhere. Which was its own kind of madness, because I’d only heard it once before. I had no business knowing anything about a stranger’s footsteps. I didn’t want to admit that I hadn’t stopped thinking about the girl with a noose’s bruise around her neck all week.
I was half out of the stage clothes, shirt already gone, reaching for the robe on the hook because a man doesn’t greet a lady in his boxers, however far gone he is. I got one arm into it before she stepped through.
“You stayed,” I said, stating the obvious.
“You asked me to.” She shut the door behind her and looked at me — bare chest, the robe hanging open, the boxers, the scarred leg I hadn’t gotten trousers over yet. To her credit s
