The door creaked open, and before Dawson could even step inside, Amabel sprang to her feet from the bed, her arms crossed over her chest. She strode forward, her eyes fixed intently on him. “You didn't come home last night? Where did you sleep? Where are you coming from?” The questions tumbled out in rapid succession. She’d been waiting, coiled with tension, since the sound of his car had echoed through the driveway. As soon as he'd stepped in, she was ready to confront him. Dawson brushed past her concerns, walking straight to the bed. He sank onto the edge, his movements weary, and began to remove his wristwatch. As he set it down on the nightstand, Amabel closed in, her anger palpable. “I'm talking to you,” she said, her voice even, careful not to let her tone get shrill. “You didn't come home, and you didn't even bother to call. I called you over and over, but you didn't pick up until your phone died, or maybe you switched it off.” Dawson’s response was direct, his words unapo
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