Chris was still in the living room when I woke up.
At first, I thought he'd just drifted off there by accident after he told me he'd come back to bed, as he would occasionally when we were younger, falling asleep on the couch with his sketchbook half-open across his chest. But the way he was sitting didn't look like rest…
He was slumped in the armchair by the window, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, the bat still across his lap. The curtain was cracked, just slightly, like he'd left it that way on purpose.
Unlike the other vision of him asleep on the couch with the sketchbook, this sight made my stomach turn.
I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders as I came closer. "Chris?"
He stirred, eyes opening sluggishly. For a moment, he looked past me, disoriented, like he'd forgotten where we were. Then he blinked and forced a tired smile.
"Hey."
"Did you sleep here all night?" I said, trying to control my worry and the unsettling feeling in my chest.
