I stood there, stunned. Only for a few seconds before I started banging on the door. "Talk to me! You can't just shut me out like this!"
No answer.
"Christian please. Open the door. Let's just talk."
My eyes stung.
My heart screamed.
But I knew pleading wouldn't work.
So I ran downstairs and asked Elizabeth for the spare keys to his room.
She didn't ask questions. Just looked at me with those calm, old-soul eyes, and pressed the key into my hand.
"Thank you," I whispered and sprinted back upstairs.
My hands shook as I slid the key into the lock.
The room was empty.
He wasn't there.
I stepped into the closet, and there he was.
Standing under the closet light, damp from the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips.
Water glistened on his skin, running in trails down his chest, tracing the muscles I used to know so well. His hair, dark and wet, dripped slowly at the tips.
He looked like a god. Beautiful. Untouchable.
And furious.
