Feedback: Yes, please. And feel free to lay it on me. I don't break ;)
Disclamair: Based on the world and characters created by created by Jeff Lindsay and Showtime. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made.
Running on empty
The collective whirr of the treadmill and the AC left her mind pleasantly numb; drifting along on the mechanical hum and the thud-thud-thud of her feet. Sweat was pouring out of her; a tickling sensation in her hair before running down her temple, neck, blooming a dark shade of grey when it reached the fabric of her t-shirt.
Debra had covered three miles earlier that day, but as usual she grew restless as the day passed, an itch spreading under her skin, making her fidgety and testy. Her neat-freak brother's apartment was too god damned uncluttered. Just clean lines, lots of white and open space, nothing to keep her mind distracted. Brian was still out there, and she did not. Want. To think about it.
The door opened, and Dexter leaned in. "I have a distinct feeling of déjà vu."
Debra pointedly ignored him, kept right on running, pulse thrumming in her ears.
"Come on, Deb." Still no answer. Dexter sighed, descended into silence for a minute, broad frame filling the doorway and pensively observing her. He'd do that sometimes, like he was trying to figure out what to say. Like it was all that difficult. Like it wasn't fucking obvious. "No one's chasing you, Deb."
He still got it wrong at least half the time.
Clenching her jaw, she jabbed at the stop button, hopped off breathing heavily and glared half-heartedly at him. "If you didn't bomb me with your damn doughnuts every morning, maybe I wouldn't have to run my ass off."
Tilting his head, he gave her an appraising glance, before finally shrugging nonchalantly. "So you're not interested in the glorious porterhouse steak I've got cooking?"
Sometimes he got it right, though.
"You're such a dick." Smiling, she followed her brother out of the bedroom, punching him companionably in the shoulder.