Drew didn't come home until long after dark, an hour after I'd given up on seeing him before the morning.
I'd turned off the laptop ages ago, eaten some dinner without any enthusiasm, taken a long, hot shower, and then come back downstairs to lie on the couch and brood.
The creak of the back door opening made me jump, but then the familiar cadence of Drew's footsteps had me flopping back into the cushions, my heart still pounding a little. The ceiling lights were off, and the single standing lamp by the end of the couch cast his shadow up against
the high wall like something out of a nightmare. He looked good, though, because he always did, even if he could've stepped out of a different kind of nightmare, or maybe a horror movie, what with the tears in his shirt and shorts, the bits of leaves caught in his wavy hair, and the dirt smudges and fine scratches on his arms and legs.
