The walk to my apartment was silent. I kept a cautious distance, my heart thudding in time with my steps. What if I’d made a mistake? What if he wasn’t as harmless as he seemed?
Once inside, I handed him a towel and a stack of old clothes: oversized sweatpants and a faded T-shirt that had belonged to an ex.
“The shower’s through there,” I said, pointing down the hall. “I’ll make us dinner while you’re cleaning up.”
He nodded and disappeared into the bathroom.
As the sound of running water filled the apartment, I busied myself in the kitchen. The weight of my decision pressed down on me as I chopped tomatoes and onions.
I glanced at the door, considering the lock. Too late now.
When he finally emerged, I froze. The man standing before me was not the scruffy figure I’d found by the dumpster. His face was clean, his hair damp but combed back, revealing sharp cheekbones and striking features. He looked familiar.
The contents of the pot sizzled as I slowly approached him. I could see his face clearly and was certain I knew this man. I frowned as I tried to place him, and it hit me.
“This is impossible,” I whispered, my stomach twisting. “You… I know you. It’s been years, but…”
His gaze met mine, steady and unflinching.
