EMILY
The first thing I register is that his hair is wet.
The second thing I register is the t-shirt.
Black, plain, soft from washing, clinging to him in all the places a shirt clings to a man who just toweled off in a hurry. Across the chest. Over the shoulders. A patch at his hip where the water from his hair has bled through. His feet are bare.
The third thing I register is the glasses.
He is wearing them. Actually wearing them, perched on the bridge of his nose, the black frames catching the hallway light, turning his grey eyes into something softer behind the lenses, something close and readable in a way I have never in my life associated with Nicholas Blackwood. He looks like a man who just put down a book. He looks like he should be holding a cup of tea. He looks, and this is t
