Days pass like snowflakes on a windshield. Quietly, slowly, then suddenly gone. Somehow, it's already December 31st. The last day of the year. The final square on the calendar that's been hanging crooked in Noah's kitchen since I moved in.
I wake up and get out the guest room to the soft rustle of Noah's fingers typing, the quiet hum of his laptop's fan, and the occasional low bark from Mellow, who's taken to dragging her blanket from one side of the room to the other as if she's doing interior design. Noah sits on the carpet with his back against the couch, glasses slipping down his nose, a sweatshirt sleeve pulled halfway over one hand as he absentmindedly pets her.
He glances at me as I shuffle past to the bathroom. "Morning," he says, voice still husky with sleep but already halfway back in work mode.
"Morning," I mumble.
