@evanabuchanan
He tucks an unlit cigarette between his lips as he treks inside, leaving the glass doors opening onto the balcony ajar, as the familiar sound of his phone buzzing atop granite countertops draws him into the kitchen. September breezes filter through the space as Charles swipes his phone open and reads another update from Birdie; her messages better likened to hieroglyphics than coherent tidbits, littered with emojis and various misprints that either confounded or amused.
He clicks on the audio message that she sends next; her voice, on the contrary, clear and strong and full of clarity. As he listens, he fails to hear the front door creak open, and it is only when he feels a hand against his hips and a solid chest against his back that he realises someone else is there. Although there is a slight, tangible leap to his pulse ( an impulsive reaction ) he knows exactly who it is.
“Hey.” He breathes. “How much of that did you hear?”
