Emma
James is standing at the door of my bedroom. It very quickly dawns on me, though, that no- this is not just my room.
So my question: “What are you doing here?” froze in my throat before I could speak it out loud.
James is dressed in an old T-shirt and his hair is messy and dishevelled. His eyes are burning like earlier but not in red.
There are no flames there, but the deep, earthy colour of his dark eyes. He has a small scratch on his cheek that runs almost to his chin. My eyes travel lower until they reach his lips. Then they continue moving lower.
There’s another, deeper scratch on his bare forearm. I don’t look up because I know James is watching me.
My face suddenly flushes with shame, he caught me staring at him.
And who wouldn’t?
James has been out. here’s the sc
