Itās late. How late in the night, Cody doesnāt know. He had woken up in the middle of the night to a quiet house and a parched throat. He had slid out of his bed and opened his door, peeking out into the hallway and the room opposite his.
Maxās door is open. His room is dark and empty. As expected, really.
Cody creeps carefully past their fatherās bedroom, where rhythmic, rumbling snores emanate from within, crossing the hallway quickly. He pads down the stairs on tiptoe in his socks, rubbing at his tired eyes, and turns the corner into the large kitchen.
The cold tile bleeds through his socks, and he moves as slowly as possible to avoid making noise. He opens the cabinet and pulls out a simple glass cup, lowering it to the faucet and turning it on, watching water spill into it before he turns it off.
The opening and closing of a door makes Cody jump. He whips around with wide eyes, worried heād awoken his father, before he sees the broad shadow of his older brother stumbling through the front door, clearly inebriated and disoriented, which is odd, as usually he comes home from late parties freshly fucked and ego enlarged.
Cody glances at the time on the microwave that reads 2:04 a.m. āYouāre home early,ā he deadpans quietly, turning back to his cup, blissfully unaware of Maxās anxiety or the night that heās had. āRough party? Got in a fight with someone there, or something?ā
He didn't answer his questions. Instead, he headed straight for the fridge. He opened it and grabbed a bottle of soda, then started to drink.
When he was done he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his letterman and put the bottle back in the fridge.
"What I do is not your business." He said, slurring his words.
