I opt for something business casual but baggy. I can still feel the way Timofey’s gaze dragged over me last night. His attention had a heft that I still can’t seem to shake. If there is any way I can avoid catching his eye, I’m willing to try it. I’d wear a potato sack if it meant keeping those eyes away from me.
Before I wheel my bike into the hallway, I stop and look around my apartment. Timofey didn’t say anything about me not coming back to my place tonight. Aside from telling me to be there this morning, I know nothing.
But it still feels like a goodbye of sorts.
So I look around at the remnants of my ordinary life—the crocheted blanket my grandma made me tossed over the arm of my ratty couch, the toast crumbs on the counter, my running shoes kicked off next to the door. I catalog
