In His Brothers Bed
“Now I’m dressed for a sleepover.
Do we tell ghost stories now, or do we go straight to the part where you admit you love having me here?”
“I admit nothing,” I said, though the smile on my face was so wide it actually made my cheeks ache.
The heavy, suffocating weight of Arman’s message began to lift. For the first time in hours, the grainy video wasn’t the first thing I saw when I closed my eyes.
Instead, it was a mafia man who had probably killed millions, sitting in a chair, wearing tiny pineapple pants just to make me stop crying.
Bab Populer