Hansen's apartment felt too small tonight. Usually, the slightly chaotic stack of books on the coffee table and the half-finished sketch on his easel acted as a comfort. But tonight, the air was stagnant. It was thick with a phantom residue, a trace of citrus and something like rain-dampened lilies that had lingered long after Amara stepped out the door.
He was feeling "bumpy." It was a clumsy, restless word, but it was the only one that fit. That itchy, unsettled hum in the nerves that comes when you've watched someone you care about walk toward a bonfire, and you're just left standing in the dark with a handful of matches.
