The moment I stepped through my front door, I ripped my shirt off, nearly tearing the fabric in my frustration. The buttons strained before finally giving way, one popping off and skidding across the floor, disappearing into the shadows beneath the couch. I let it fall where it landed, barely sparing it a glance. My heart was pounding, my skin burning with an agitation I couldn't shake — a familiar heat that reminded me of battles lost to myself.
"Damn Malcolm," I muttered, my voice hoarse with exhaustion and something dangerously close to longing, the name tasting bitter on my tongue.
