The house was dead quiet after eleven. Their parents had gone to bed hours ago—upstairs doors closed, lights off, the faint creak of the old floorboards settling into silence. Down in the living room, the TV glowed low, some late-night thriller playing with the volume barely above a whisper. Marcus sat on the couch in nothing but loose gray sweatpants, legs spread, one arm draped along the backrest. He wasn’t watching the screen. His mind was elsewhere—on the soft footsteps he’d heard padding down the hall earlier, on the way the air always felt thicker when she was near.
The rug in front of the couch was thick, soft, the color of warm caramel. Angel appeared at the edge of the light—bare legs first, then the hem of his old black t-shirt that swallowed her frame. It hit mid-thigh, sleeves
