head_psychic

Shawn sneaks inside, alone, careful not to be seen. His lower lip is caught between his teeth and he bites down the frustration from time to time to stay focused on not making a sound. He's breathing hard, he's close to panting, his emotions running high. The place is empty but it doesn't stop him from walking up the stairs as silently as possible until he's once more in the sofreakinavantgarde room of the loft. Now with the case closed they have to get their things and move out.

He's not sad about leaving this place. He feels bitter about it, he feels bitter about a lot of things right now. His head throbs with an aching pain that could also be a lump in his throat for all he cares. Which he does not, he doesn't care. At all. About anything. His dad with a hickey, I'm going on a second date with Susan, Susan, what kind of name is Susan anyway?

No, he can't, he can't deal with this, he can't, there's just no way in hell. Shawn accidentally knocks his bag over, his hands are shaking, he wiggles them a little to relax his tense muscles. He grabs the bag and puts it back on the bed, throwing his stuff inside, determined to pack and leave as soon as possible.

He really wants to get out of this place before any of those air-headed models drops by for further commentary.