It started with a single knock on the guest bedroom door.
I thought it was my husband.
He had a habit of coming to me when he couldn’t sleep.
But it wasn’t him.
It was Zayd his twin.
The one we hadn’t seen in six years.
The one who just got out of prison.
He was drenched, shirtless, tattoos slick with rain, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
He looked like my husband, but not. Wilder. Harder. Hungrier.
“You left the light on,” he said.
“I thought it was Samir.”
He stared at me in silence. “Did it matter?”
I should have told him to leave.
I should have closed the door.
Instead, I stepped aside.
He came in without a word.
And in the low light, with only the sound of the thunder outside, I let him look at me.
His eyes burned.
His gaze dropped to my thighs, my tank top, the s
