Seething. Yeah, I’d say that was a pretty good way to describe how I’m feeling at this particular moment in time. I…could…fucking…kill…him. Mechanically, I cross the room, all eleven feet of space, and I grab my backpack from where it’s hanging on the hook behind the door. I fish his stupid AirPod out of the little zipper pocket on the front, slap it into his open palm, and then gesture to the door. “Alright, then. You got what you came for. Go.” If he smirks, I swear to god, I am going to lose my fucking mind. Lucky for him, his lips remain static, pressed into a flat line.
