Marlowe
The lock clicked, and the sound landed entirely differently than it had that first morning in the bathroom, weeks ago, a lifetime ago, when a locked door had been the only thing standing between me and disaster.
This time the door was already open. There was nothing left to lock out.
I pulled the wrap back up over myself with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, some useless, automatic instinct toward modesty that felt absurd given everything he'd already seen. King stood with his back against the door, watching me, his expression unreadable in a way that scared me considerably more than open anger would have.
Neither of us spoke. The silence stretched taut enough to hum, both of us waiting, I understood eventually, to see which of us would break first.
I almost did, three separa
