Her hair is messy and escaping from her bun. Her eyes are bloodshot, diluting down the blue of heririses. Black sweats and a white tank top underneath a shaggy oversized cardigan.
And still, she manages to be beautiful.
“Charlotte,” I murmur in return.
We breathe in sync for a moment.
“Thanks for getting me out.”
I don’t meet her eyes. “The Polish certainly weren’t going to do it.”
It’s a bitter comment. Part of me regrets it as soon as she leaves my lips.
But if it affects her, she says nothing.
She’s silent for a long time.
Then she walks over to the counter, only a few feet away from me.
“I didn’t say anything, you know,” she tells me without meeting my eyes. “They asked me a lot ofquestions, but I didn’t give them anything. I wouldn’t do that.”
I nod slowly
