“That’s good,” I said, dropping my duffel bag by the door. “Because I got back from deployment early, used my own key, walked into my own apartment, and found you in my room wearing my hoodie while surrounded by my financial documents.”
She looked down at the hoodie like it had betrayed her.
“It was cold.”
“It’s Richmond, Virginia. The heat is on.”
“The apartment has emotional drafts.”
“Tessa.”
Her mouth closed.
I stepped inside, slow. Not because I was afraid of her. Because she looked like if I moved too fast, she might break.
The floor creaked under my boots. It was the same creak I used to hear at night when she came home from the hospital after a twelve-hour shift, kicked off her sneakers in the hallway, and whispered insults at the microwave.
For a year and a half, this apartment had been simple.
