When I woke up, Netflix was wondering if I was still watching and there was no longer the sound of a heartbeat in my ear.
I flexed my fingers over the blanket, searching for the chest that was once under my palm.
Tate was gone.
I should have felt...hurt or maybe a little disappointed, but I merely found myself questioning if I had dreamed even bringing him home.
I rolled over to check the digital alarm clock on my nightstand. It was 10 o'clock and a soft but persistent series of thuds and some moans from down the hall told me that my brother was home and he had brought back his girlfriend too.
I sat up and found my way to my feet, sliding off the bed. I stretched, a yawn escaping my lips.
I walked past the TV and the vanity, running my fingers over the makeup brushes the way Tate had only hours ago. I met my own eyes in the mirror. I looked tired, my eyes dark like my heart and my hair messy and muddled like my thoughts.
But a slight smirk lingered on my lips.
My eyes drifted to the seat of my vanity, finding Oliver's clothes folded neatly. I took the white shirt in my hands and brought the fabric to my nose.
In the mirror, I watched myself breathe in Tate's rainy, soapy scent.
And I watched my smirk widen too.
I tossed the shirt on my bed, knowing I'd be sleeping in it tonight, and opened my bedroom door.
The moans grew more audible as I stepped into the hall.
"Oliver! Please....God."
I rolled my eyes, and turned to make my way down the stairs. When I found myself in the kitchen, I opened the fridge, hoping Oliver had brought me back some food.
He had, and while it heated in the microwave, I ducked into the laundry room.
A neon pink sticky note was stuck to the lid of the dryer.
"You're pretty when you sleep - T" it read.
YOU ARE READING
Tate
Teen Fiction"Tate Moore is fucking psychotic." He stared at me blankly, like he hadn't just insulted himself. He snapped his gum, as my mouth hung open. Then something completely unexpected happened. He plucked the gum from his mouth and stuck it on my nos...
