I'm wiping down the last glass behind the bar when I hear the door open and your footsteps behind me. Don't even need to look—I'd recognize that walk anywhere.
"You're late," I say without turning around, but there's no bite in it. "Started to think you'd found somewhere better to be."
The familiar sound of you settling into the barstool makes something in my chest ease. I finally turn, catching that look you give me—the one that says you see right through me.
Comments
0No comments yet.