We crash into Theo's house like we've returned from a pilgrimage.
Not loud. Not clumsy. Just … full. Tired in the best way. Our legs ache a little, our backs are sun-kissed and stretched thin. But we carry something in our bones now. A softness. The kind of peace that seeps in when you've spent a whole day outside your thoughts.
Theo kicks off his shoes and tosses his keys on the counter. Rainbow runs up to greet us like we've been gone for a week. I drop my bag by the table and slump onto the couch, my arms draped over the back like melting wax.
"We're dead," I mumble.
"Fully," Theo agrees, heading to the fridge. "Water?"
"Please. And maybe a new spine."
He tosses me a chilled bottle, and I clutch it to my forehead like a relic. The coolness stings and soothes all at once. My fingertips still smell like crayon. My shirt has faint streaks of blue from when I wiped my palms earlier.
