The apartment smells like him. That's the first thing she notices when she walks in on the third night. Cedar and tobacco and ozone, layered into the leather of the couch, the wool of the throw blanket, the cotton of the shirt he left draped over a chair. It's in her hair now. Her clothes. Her lungs.The lights are off. Manhattan's glow spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long blue shadows across the hardwood. He's sitting on the couch. Still in his work clothes — charcoal suit jacket discarded somewhere, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose and crooked. His forearms rest on his knees, hands hanging loose. He's staring at nothing.He doesn't look up when she closes the door. But she sees his chest expand. A breath he's been holding for three days."You read my message," he says. His voice is rough. Lower than usual."Thirty-seven times." She lets the bag slide off her shoulder, drops it by the door. Her heels click against the wood as she crosses the room. "I
Read more
LOGIN
