@rowanfisher
Everything keeps coming back to her, regardless of the drinks he’s had, the cigarettes he’s smoked, or the things he’s thrown out of the house. He can’t help but pace around the kitchen, eyes glued to his cheap flip-phone sitting on the kitchen table. The device is taunting him, reminding him of what he’s done. I miss you. It’s pathetic, really. Drunk texting your ex-wife? He can hear his father’s voice in his head now, calling him spineless. Come home. He’s going to regret this in the morning, embarrassment ruining through his veins the moment he realizes what he’s done. I don’t want to be alone tonight. He isn’t drunk, technically speaking. Prison may have tanked his alcohol tolerance, but a few beers and some whiskey were still only enough to get him buzzed enough to let his guard down. He’d remember this in the morning, once the light comes through his bed room wind and he’s returned to reality.
He should have just stayed at the festival. Drank himself into a stupor with his brothers, and crashed at the clubhouse. But instead, he’d managed to get home somewhere past one in the morning -- And soon enough, he was trying to get in contact with Rowan. No response comes, no faint vibration or small ‘ping’ to signal to him that he has a message to read. Nothing. Only him pacing around the kitchen, willing himself to focus on anything but the damn phone -- To think about the cool tile against his feet, how comfortable a good pair of sweat pants and an old MC t-shirt can be. The warmth of his home, the comfort of his bed. Madison’s bedroom at the end of the hall, door carefully locked, key long forgotten. The silence of his -- not theirs, he has to remind himself -- home now that he’s alone. So much for a distraction. His pacing hasn’t stopped, continuing his movements as his hands run over his face, a pity party of one now in full force.
And then -- The door bell. It stops him dead in his tracks, a mild wave of panic washing over him. A knock at the door in the middle of the night never brought anything good, at least not by Thane family terms. On instinct, Andy answered the door with a baseball bat in hand (thankfully still tucked away in the coat closet, in case the moment called for it), opening the door slowly. “Look, man, I don’t know what you want but -- Oh.” Rowan, standing at his door, in the middle of the night. Rowan was there, standing in the doorway. He can’t help the smile that finds him, a mixture of surprise and relief washing over him. “Rowan,” Andy can’t stop himself from saying her name, the word coming out as smooth and slow as honey. Half a second passes, his eyes never leaving hers, before his hand instinctively reaching out to pull her inside, kicking the door closed with his foot behind them. It was a motion he had done so many times before, for the better half of his adult life -- He’d pull her into his room, closing the door behind them, effectively having her pressed up against the wood, before kissing her as a greeting. Only now, he’d pulled her in and paused, hesitation finding him the moment the door shut. “I’m glad you’re here.” They’re in close proximity, and he can only hope this doesn’t end up in disaster.
