He looked around the small apartment. His. His home. No corrugated tin walls, no foul smell of stale beer. No raging monster that he had to live with. His home alone.

He had shelves under the kitchen counter for his battered books, his old beloved copy of Ulysses. He could finally hang that Metallica poster on the wall that Max and Izzy had gotten for him for Christmas two years back. His New Mexico license plate that he'd found on the highway once, hitching to school. His lumpy brown couch that was still larger than the cramped cot he'd slept on for almost ten years. His. Home.

Somehow, being alone didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. He could throw his jeans and shirt in a heap on the floor and not have to worry about who might beat the shit out of him for doing it. He could repaint the ugly brown and yellow walls if he wanted to, redo the tacky wallpaper in the kitchen. He could have Izzy and Max over for dinner, and watch his sister wrinkle up her nose in that Princess Isabel look whenever she glanced at his wonky little fridge that smelled so foul.

His.

As he laid back on the couch, covered himself with the worn afghan on the back, he couldn't help noticing that if he scrunched himself up against the back of the couch, that another body would fit nestled next to his. It would have to be a small body with soft curves, a golden head that could be cradled against his shoulder. His bed, where he could finally sleep without fear. Alone.

He could picture her, sitting at her mirror in her room, brushing out her short, wet hair. Burrowed under the blue comforter on her bed. Sitting at her window, staring out through the beaded curtain. He could almost feel her weight beside him, tucked up against his body. Perfection. In his home.

*ring*

His phone, a tacky piece of blue crap that Max had found in his closet at home.

"Yeah?"

And the soft sound of her voice. "Jackass. I just wanted to make sure you were...okay...y'know?"

Warmth spread from his head, down through his chest, and melted the ice wall around his heart. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Good. I was worried about you, cheesehead."

Cheesehead. His cheesehead.

"Thanks. For...everything." He'd learned one thing. It was human to say thank you, but thank you wasn't always a bad thing. Thank yous helped create his home. His place. Thank yous would keep it full of life.

Her voice was soft. "You're welcome, Michael. Sweet dreams."

His dreams--sweet for the first time in a long time.

"You too, cheesehead."

And her quiet laughter. "It's weird, without you here hogging the covers."

It was weird, without her weight pressed up against him, her warmth. "You're not snoring, so I'm happy."

She snorted. "You must've mistaken me for Max. I don't snore."

"Night, buzzard lips." His friend. Maria.

"Night, Chicken beak."

And he rolled over to enjoy his first real sleep in a long time. Maybe his life wasn't so bad in Roswell, New Mexico. Maybe it was a place he could call his home--for a little while.

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