Damon’s POV
Brooding. Drake said I was brooding.
I don’t brood. Brooding is for tragic poets, sitting in candlelit rooms and pining for lost loves. What I was doing was thinking. Strategizing. Maybe stewing a little—but that’s beside the point.
We were waiting in the sitting room, our hiking bags packed and ready to go. Drake was sprawled on the couch, twirling a flashlight in his hand like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. The guy had no chill. Meanwhile, I sat by the window, tapping my fingers against my knee, my eyes fixed on the driveway.
“You’re brooding,” Drake said again, not even looking up this time.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I shot back, dragging my gaze away from the window to glare at him.
“You’ve been staring out there like you’re waiting for an apocalypse,”
