Book 14: We're Not Friends

Soren

Patton is already at the kitchen table drinking coffee when I sit up from the couch, blinking into hazy midmorning sunlight. My body rejects the idea of moving, my joints popping and head swimming for several seconds before I fully rise and stumble to my feet.

He hums a laugh, but his eyes are on a newspaper spread out across the table, which he keeps so clean and polished I can see my reflection in its surface when I sit down. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” he says with a small yawn, flipping a page. “Didn’t feel like waking you.”

“Is she up yet?” I blearily reach toward the window to pull the curtains closed against the intense sunlight pouring directly into my eyes, but Patton beats me to it, then rises to fetch a coffee mug from his tidy cabinets.

“Not yet–”

I rise, turning for the stairs.

“I already checked on her,” Patton admends, clicking his tongue at me. “She’s fine. She’s still asleep.”

I grip the