⇷ When a God Crashes at Your Place ⇸
Light came through the blinds in slats lining across the room, bending as they fell over the coffee table, Bo's feet, the couch, and stopped just before his face. His chest rose and fell softly as he napped peacefully on his old, wilted couch on a Sunday afternoon. With nothing set in his schedule, and a long week weighing on him, he was quickly brought into a much needed deep sleep the moment he finally slowed down and stopped moving.
His apartment was small and dingy, but it was home.
The yellowing walls had faint water stains that had never been painted over, and the ceiling had faint spots of unknown origin. One brick wall, adjacent to a wall with a row of tall windows, housed an unused fireplace. He'd stuck a small bookcase in there, and that was about as artsy as the apartment got: the rest was a little messy, and all of the furniture was a little worn and scratched up. All of it was thrifted or gifted, and decorations were sparse.
In the middle of the wooden coffee table there was a small vase with wilting flowers and a few books stacked with no particular intentionality. The single couch faced the windows, but there was a small blue single-seat that filled up the corner.
Two small pictures hung on the wall by the door - one, a picture of his father, when he was young - and another of James and his family. Apart from those and a sole clock, the walls were blank.
Bo's peaceful breathing amongst the musty air was abruptly interrupted when a body fell into his lap. With great alarm, Bo's entire consciousness came to alertness, and he instinctively punched the body with full force. Whoever it was fell to the floor in a puddle of black clothing, and Bo found himself pointing his gun as the intruder before he could even think.
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