When I woke up, Netflix was wondering if I was still watching and there was no longer the sound of a heartbeat in my ear.

I flexed my fingers over the blanket, searching for the chest that was once under my palm. 

Tate was gone.

I should have felt...hurt or maybe a little disappointed, but I merely found myself questioning if I had dreamed even bringing him home.

I rolled over to check the digital alarm clock on my nightstand. It was 10 o'clock and a soft but persistent series of thuds and some moans from down the hall told me that my brother was home and he had brought back his girlfriend too.

I sat up and found my way to my feet, sliding off the bed. I stretched, a yawn escaping my lips.

I walked past the TV and the vanity, running my fingers over the makeup brushes the way Tate had only hours ago. I met my own eyes in the mirror. I looked tired, my eyes dark like my heart and my hair messy and muddled like my thoughts. 

But a slight smirk lingered on my lips.

My eyes drifted to the seat of my vanity, finding Oliver's clothes folded neatly. I took the white shirt in my hands and brought the fabric to my nose. 

In the mirror, I watched myself breathe in Tate's rainy, soapy scent. 

And I watched my smirk widen too.

I tossed the shirt on my bed, knowing I'd be sleeping in it tonight, and opened my bedroom door.

The moans grew more audible as I stepped into the hall.

"Oliver! Please....God." 

I rolled my eyes, and turned to make my way down the stairs. When I found myself in the kitchen, I opened the fridge, hoping Oliver had brought me back some food.

He had, and while it heated in the microwave, I ducked into the laundry room.

A neon pink sticky note was stuck to the lid of the dryer.

"You're pretty when you sleep - T" it read.