Sublime

bucolic

Beckett makes a frustrated sound and slaps the sink off with the palm of his hand. My fingers are still covered in suds. I try to turn the water back on but he nudges it off again. Apparently, we’ve reverted to the teenage versions of ourselves. “What the hell, Beck?”

grok,”

“If I had to pick one person to be in my corner, it’d be you. Every time. You take care of shit.”

adagio

THEY made an odd picture, knocking on the door to 3A: Mitch, towering and tattooed; Victor in head-to-toe black—less like a thief and more like a Parisian, groomed and elegant—and Sydney, sandwiched between them, in blue leggings and a large red coat.