me, standing by the door like he’s been waiting for me to walk through it. That honor belongs to the man in the suit as dark as his eyes are right now with his locs in a neat bun at the top of his head. That honor belongs to the hand he places on the small of my back and the kiss he plants on my cheek, to the gravel in his tone when he puts his lips at my ear and says, “You’re late.”
