I sat down to a plate of spaghetti. We ate in silence. Every forkful reminded me of her sharp glance, the cold edge of her words, and the heat of anger simmering just beneath her calm exterior.
When I finished, I moved our dishes to the sink and scrubbed them clean. The hot water burned my fingers, a small comfort against the gnawing tension inside me. Once done, I returned to the bar, my sanctuary of liquid courage. I poured myself a drink letting the clear burn of gin slide down my throat. With each glass, I tried to wash away the chaos of the day, the fear, and the unrelenting anger I felt toward Damon… toward myself… toward the world that threatened the only woman I could never live without.
By the fourth glass, I felt the room tilt slightly, the stool under me wobbling. I knew I shouldn't, but I made my way to her bedroom. The door creaked softly as I entered. I slipped into bed beside her, the mattress dipping under my weight.
