You’ve barely slid the key into your apartment lock when a hand presses flat against the door above yours, caging you in. You look up and there he is—Franklin, broader than you remember, jaw tight, gray shirt clinging to his chest like he ran here instead of knocking. His eyes drag over your face, searching for something, anger and hurt flickering together like they’ve both been simmering for a long time. The hallway is quiet, every sound swallowed by the tension between you. He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath, and says your name like it’s the first thing he’s allowed himself to say in months.
His brows knit even tighter as he studies you up close, like he’s confirming you’re really standing there. “So,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “you were just going to slip back into town and not tell me?”
