Celery's engine cut off its rattle just as the garage door squeaked closed. Owen's yawn filled the ensuing silence. It was an almighty yawn, matched only by a much-needed stretch as he climbed off the scooter and unhooked his helmet.
He thought about calling out to Mike, but there was no chance his arrival had gone unnoticed. It was two in the morning. The entire street was asleep. And Mike had said he'd be waiting up.
That he'd be home.
These days, that was by no means a guarantee.
Knowing that, knowing not to get his hopes up, Owen crept quietly through the house, two beer bottles in one hand and a to-go serving of fries in the other. He was making do without light and feeling relatively proud of his stealthy progress – until he rammed his knee into a table and nearly went sprawling arse over tea kettle onto the settee.