Beck wasn’t at the apartment when Isaac brought home a bunch of empty boxes, and since Isaac started with the books in his room, it took a few days until Beck even knew about them.
He knocked on the partially open door. “Hey, dinner’s rea—what are you doing?”
Isaac transferred books from his shelf to the box. There was a stack of packed boxes next to the door already, and he’d deconstructed one of his bookshelves. “Packing.”
“Yeah, I see that. Why?”
“Because I’m moving back into Mom’s house after this stupid fashion show,” Isaac said.
“Why?” Beck repeated, voice strained.
Isaac looked up at him. “Do I really have to explain?”
Beck exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. You’re choosing to run away, like always. This shouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“We can’t all punch our way through our problems,” Isaac retorted, grabbing another book and shoving it in the box.
“I mean, you’d probably feel a lot better if you punched him,” Beck muttered.