Rory
Jarvis knocked on my door at eleven at night, which should have been my first warning that whatever this visit was, it wasn't a casual one.
"I know it's late," he said, before I'd even fully gotten the door open, standing in the hallway in sweats and a jacket thrown on over them, looking like a man who'd left his apartment in a hurry and hadn't fully thought through what he intended to say once he got here. "I just — I couldn't stop thinking about tonight. About you being out cold on the ice. I needed to actually see you were okay."
"I'm okay. Bruised, foggy, but okay." I stepped back to let him in, some old instinct telling me this wasn't a conversation that belonged in a doorway. "You could've texted."
"I did text. You didn't answer." He said it without accusation, just fact, dr
