all that time apart, she'd gotten used to sleeping alone. which isn't to say her bed had remained empty, quite the opposite—despite the advice of her now - ghosted sponsor—but nobody ever spent the night. because before marty gilford, nobody ever did. like in all aspects, he is a maddening exception. it's another routine defaulted to, no matter the two thirds of her life spent without him. and then there's that damned dog. oliver's side of the bed no longer vacant returning from the bathroom. tramp, fast asleep, belly facing the sky, snores something awful, and it's another thing she misses—silence. crickets and wind chimes lulling, a rescue with a deviated septum not so much. she does look peaceful, though … and oliver opts to the other side, scooting back against marty's chest and tugging the old afghan over them both. then playing the blame game when he stirs awake. 〝 you're a damn blanket hog, marty. 〞 @sideyard
