Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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(About a month later- Two days before Christmas)
Elliott shoved a throw pillow into my face the second I stepped out of the hallway and into the living room, nearly catching me off balance. The floor creaked beneath me as I twisted out of the way, grabbing the edge of the couch for support, and catching him in the ribs with a retaliatory jab. It wasn't overly forceful- just enough to make him stumble back into the arm of the couch, laughing.
"Unprovoked attack," I muttered, catching my breath.
"That was preemptive defense," he shot back, breathless and grinning. "You were looking smug."
"I walked into the room."
"Exactly."
He tried to dive for another cushion, but I blocked him, stepping in close and tackling him into the cushions. After some struggling, he ended up pinned sideways across the couch, holding onto my shoulders with one of my hands wrapped loosely around his wrist.
The room was warm- a little too warm, honestly, thanks to the stubborn radiator near the window that hadn't shut off properly since last week. Elliott's apartment always smelled faintly of clean laundry and something sharp from the hallway- disinfectant, maybe. It wasn't cozy in a magazine way, but it was his.
I let go of his wrist, and he sat up, still half-laughing and flushed from the brief chaos. The light from the overcast sky filtered through the windows in that soft, dim way December evenings tend to do. It made everything in the apartment look a little grayer, but somehow gentler, too.
Elliott ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, then looked up at me.
"What's with you today?"
I shrugged and sat down on the coffee table across from him.
"Nothing. Just... felt like seeing you smile."
"Corny."
"True."
He looked at me for a second longer before pulling himself upright and slumping back against the couch.
"You know we could've gone outside, right? Like normal people. Played in the actual snow."
"It's cold."
"That's what coats are for."
"Coats won't save you when the wind starts throwing knives."
He gave a low scoff and leaned his head back.
"You sound like an old man."
I didn't argue.
A silence settled in, not an uncomfortable one though. It's the kind that descends softly, like a misty veil, when you know each other well enough not to have the urge to fill every gap. I studied the way his fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, his other hand resting idle against the side of the couch. Elliott always had some part of him in motion when his mind was running. I'd learned the signs early on.
