Occasionally, when I step too far to reach something in the fridge or move to quickly from the pantry to the island, I feel the memory of him inside of me, still sore from his sheer size, but otherwise, I’m able to push thoughts of Luka from my head.
Until he shows up covered in blood.
I’ve just finished pureeing my raspberries with syrup, sugar, and lemon juice, and am pressing the mixture through a fine mesh sieve into a bowl when the front door slams open and Luka stomps into the kitchen. As soon as I see him, I drop the sieve and rush around the island.
He is covered in blood. It is soaked into his shirt, splattered up his arms, and drenching his pants. I reach out to him, ready to search him for any cuts or wounds. I’ve never been comfortable around blood or the injured, but I’d st
