Flint was never the type to talk about things. Sure, he'd throw a joke here and there about it, but he'd push everyone off or lose his temper if they pressed.

The only person who knew more about him than the rest was Tábitha. And her lips were sealed. Some would say that he was just a prick, that thought with the crotch first.

But you noticed how he'd take a more nervous drag from the weed from time to time. Or how his jokes and laughs would sound too hollow to be meaningful.

You also noticed the cigarette burn marks, on his neck and hands.

You were all hanging out at the seraph- an abandoned building you had chosen to be the group's Hideout.

Maire had brought a laptop and a small USB projector, for a marathon of films they had downloaded. The first one was a silly romcom Maire had chosen. You were sitting right next to Flint. His legs were wide spread, his knee pressed against you, and his cheek resting on his closed fist, elbow on the armrest of the worn out couch.