The wine glass in my hand was already half-empty, but I hadn’t taken a single sip. It just sat there, trembling between my fingers, perhaps waiting for me to admit I was afraid. I wouldn’t. Not tonight.
John stood by the window of my room, arms folded, his silhouette outlined by the streetlamp outside. He was awaiting my response, one that would permit him to say the thing that had been gnawing at his tongue since I called him here. I wasn’t in the mood to let him off that easy.
“You’ve been quiet,” he let out eventually, voice low as if he was afraid the walls might betray us. “That’s not like you.”
I smirked, finally setting the glass down. “And you’ve been acting like a man with no place left to run. That is unlike you.”
He turned, lips twitching, eyes tired. “You should consider it
