The anxiety from the drug remained for days, clawing beneath Avery skin relentlessly like a trapped beast desperate for realese.
After a conversation with Sloane, he settled to go for a trip to the hospital— somewhere private— to ease his nerves.
Now he was back home— home? Was this place still home?
It seemed like yesterday when he had left, and now here he was— back to what he tried to run from.
The apartment was quiet when Avery returned. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind of silence that thrummed with things unsaid. It clung to the corners of the high ceilings, curled into the empty spaces between furniture, and nested in the shadow of the man who hadn't spoken more than three words since helping Avery out of the car.
