I let my head turn the smallest bit. Just enough to shift my line of sight. Just enough to see past the sheets and the edge of the pillow. My lids stayed low, my breathing slow, my body playing dead while my eyes searched the room for proof of the things I already felt.
The door came into view first. Closed.
Not cracked. Not moving. Closing like nothing had passed through it.
But that didn’t matter.
Because I saw him. Not at the door. Not by the bed. Not standing in shadow like a nightmare made of breath.
He was sitting. Across the room.
On the leather couch. Legs crossed.
One arm draped over the backrest like the furniture belonged to him.
Like the whole room did.
Like I did.
His suit was dark, pressed, perfect-like he’d had all the time in the world to get dressed while I
