ELENA
We were in Julian’s kitchen when the front door opened.
I was wearing one of his white shirts and nothing else. His hand rested on my bare thigh while he made coffee. The quiet domesticity of it felt more dangerous than any of the nights we had stolen.
My father stepped into the doorway and stopped cold.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Julian’s hand fell away from my leg. I stood up too fast. The shirt only reached mid-thigh. There was no way to pretend this was innocent.
My father’s face went through shock, then disbelief, then something that looked a lot like grief.
“What the hell is this?”
Julian’s voice stayed even. “Marcus…”
“Don’t.”
My father’s eyes moved from my bare legs to Julian’s face and back again. “Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”
I
