Thirty-Three
A mixture of gray and white filtered in as Max lay on the couch, blinking at the heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes in Freya’s living room, the tiniest slip of light spilling in through a break in the center.
Having slept there overnight, he huffed out a sigh and interlaced his fingers over his belly trying not to breathe in the smell of clothes still worn since the beginning of his long bar shift yesterday morning.
Every so often, the light from the curtains flickered with the soft plod of people walking by in the street outside. People just starting their day. Occasionally, the plodding came with the sound of chatter, another reminder of just how long he’d lain here, awake and alone.
Last night, within seconds of arriving home, Freya ran upstairs, and he’d stayed in case she
