Mancea

They haven’t touched in years. Nothing real, anyway, nothing that would matter. Propriety, rules, those lines in the sand. It matters, Gabe knows, or it did, and now so little matters at all. The polite rules abandoned them in the fires. Pope says God didn’t, though, and now Mancea’s forehead is flush to his own. All that’s old is new again.

Gabe tries a crooked smile. “You still trust me?”