At the soft knock on the door to his room, Corey sighed. He couldn’t even navigate the unfamiliar hotel room to answer it. “Come in,” he called—the door was unlocked. He heard the knob turn, heard the squeak of hinges that needed to be oiled, then quiet footsteps entered the room. Even though he hated asking, he had to. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” Ian said. The door closed softly beneath the sound of his voice. Corey heard the faint swish of shoes over carpet, then a gentle hand touched his arm. “How are you doing?”
“How the hell do you think I’m doing?” Corey replied, his voice childish. It was petty, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the pout on his lips or the petulance in his voice. “I can’t see, Ian, remember?”
With a rustle of denim, Ian sat down beside him on the couch. Corey could fee
