Don stood in front of Michael’s door for several minutes that night, steeling himself to rap on the peeling door. The sound, when he made it, was jarringly loud even over the half-heard noise from the street outside. If it hadn’t been for the knowledge that he’d have to meet him across a desk on Monday morning—or worse, report him as a no-show—Don didn’t think he’d have gone through with it.
There was no clue in Michael’s face as to what he was feeling as he wordlessly opened the door wide, clad only in a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. After a moment gazing at Don, he turned and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Don followed, unable to keep his eyes off Michael’s slender, disfigured back. He supposed it would still be a little uncomfortable with a shirt on, although the damage did loo
