Ridiculously, my first instinct is to correct him—they can’t prove a rape actually occurred. But then I look at him—really look at him—at the bruises and the banged-up hands. Hands that are a little too beat up for someone who got into a simple fight. And not just anyone, either, but Luke. My Luke, who flirts his way through life, spreading sunshine around with his teasing and his smiles. My Luke is a lover.
