I practically scrambled out of the driver's side the second we pulled into the driveway. Hurrying around to the back door, I yanked it open. Joaquin was slumped over in the exact same heap as when I loaded him into the car—face buried against the door, his body a lifeless weight against the leather interior.
His deep, rhythmic breathing dissolved into a faint, heavy snore. Must be nice, right?
He had stormed out earlier like he’d been robbed of his life savings—pouting like a petulant child because I dared to draw a boundary—only for me to be the one hauling his passed-out body back home.
I leaned inside the cramped backseat and tapped his arm sharply. He didn't budge. I grabbed his shoulder, shaking him harder, but it was like trying to move an iron anchor. He groaned once, shifted his
