Wyatt stretches back against the wall. His eyes glow a little yellow in the candlelight. He reminds me of a beautiful feral tabby that used to hang out at my aunt’s trailer. Sometimes, I’d sneak him into bed with me, not caring if he might wake up in the middle of the night and tear me to pieces. “What’s the worst thing that happened to you, Angel?” he asks. “In the group home.”
He's so fucking intense and inappropriate ALL THE TIME. The only excuse I'll accept for his wild behavior is some kind of personality disorder.
