The keypad beeped. Then there was a metallic click of the lock, and the door opened at 10:36 PM.
I'd been sitting on the couch, knees drawn to my chest, scouring the news on my phone, hoping the unraveling of Caius Valmont had already magically begun. Even though I still had the footage.
My heart jumped in my chest at the sound, and I looked up from the screen to the door.
The main room was dark except for the line of wet city light leaking in through a small opening under the blackout shades.
Seven hesitantly crossed the threshold and stood just inside the door.
For a whole minute, he was still. His jacket, baseball cap, and pants were drenched with raindrops, and his face was hidden by a bandana. A puddle of mud was forming around his boots.
I unfolded myself, swung my legs over the edge of the couch, and rose up.
"I called you," I said.
He didn't answer.
"I called you a lot."
More silence.
"I was worried something happened to you," I admitted.I was worried you didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Instead of responding, he kicked off his boots, retrieved the yellow envelope from underneath his jacket and walked toward thetable. He placed the envelope on the table, then removed his gloves and dropped them next to the envelope.
"Did you look?" I asked.
Seven moved to the refrigerator, pulled the door open, grabbed a bottle of water, but didn't do anything with it as if he was scared to bare his face in front of me.
Maybe I had imagined it all—him choosing to show himself.
He braced one hand against the fridge, staring at nothing and actively avoiding my gaze. He looked as he always did. But something in the angle of his spine read differently. Like he was bracing for something, or coming down off something hard.
I waited until he shut the fridge and turned to me.
"Are you okay?" I asked, feeling on edge.
The conversation felt one-sided. Still, I didn't want to be in complete silence. I'd been in it for the past two days.
Finally, he looked at me. His eyes seemed darker than normal, darker and stormier.
"No… I didn't have the guts," he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the envelope.
"Oh."
He took a step forward in my direction. Then another and another. Until we were close enough to touch. We didn't, though.
"How do you feel?"
I shrugged. "Fine."
He put the bottle down on the table, reached out, picked up my hand, and gently turned it over. His fingers traced the inside of my forearm, stopping at the purple-brown bruise just below the elbow. "Does it hurt?"
"No." That wasn't exactly a lie. I wasn't in pain anymore. I was high from his touch. He was like a battery, charging me up, and I felt it going down my legs and into my toes.
He held my wrist in both of his hands, careful, like he was afraid I'd break. He inspected the left side of my forehead and then dropped his gaze to my neck. "If I could, I'd kill him."
I smiled. "That's dramatic."
