We go to bed that night, barely saying another word. I try not to pressure him into anything, so I leave him be. He needs to get some sleep. I hope he’ll feel better in the morning.
But once morning actually comes, I wake up to him, lying next to me quietly, staring into the ceiling. Bubba is lying at our feet, not having a single care in the world, while I start to worry. I turn to my side, placing my arm over him.
“Morning,” I murmur, but he barely even blinks. However, despite being in an obviously bad mood, he turns his head towards me and greets me back.
“Morning,” he responds quietly, starting at me for a short moment, before turning his attention back to the ceiling. Seriously, what does he find so interesting about it? I frown and glance upwards, realizing there’s a tiny crack j
