The truck’s headlights cut through the darkness as I make my decision.
Taylen shifts in his seat, head lolling against the window, and something in my chest tightens at how vulnerable he looks.
The familiar curves of the farm road appear ahead, lined with snow-dusted trees that glow silver in the moonlight.
My parents’ farmhouse comes into view, but before I get there, I take a turn to my place. The cabin is my sanctuary. Even my band brothers don’t come in when they’re on the farm. Bringing someone inside, especially the next-door neighbor who seems to have a beef with me, I must be out of my mind.
I park the truck and cut the engine, letting silence settle around us. Taylen’s breathing, steady and deep, is the only sound in the stillness.
I unlock the front door and turn the lights on before going back to the truck to get Taylen. Surprisingly, he’s a little more cooperative this time. Probably because he’s half-asleep.
Somehow, he manages to use the bathroom on his own, but when he comes out, he’s wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.
Gouta’s bleat draws me out of my stupefied state as I unashamedly ogle Taylen’s body. The way his broad chest tapers to a slim waist, the tattoos he has scattered all over his chest and arms. It shouldn’t come as news to me that the kid I rememberchasing me and his brother around the farm is very much no longer a kid.
In fact, I know how much he is no longer a kid.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Taylen lies down on my bed and pulls the covers over his body, muttering, “Goodnight, rockstar,” before a soft snore fills the silence. Gouta jumps on the bed and curls up against Taylen.
I turn the light out and head to the living room. At least I won’t have to share the couch.
6
TAYLEN
My skull feelslike it’s being split open with an axe, each throb a new strike against bone. The unfamiliar mattress beneath me is too soft, the blanket too heavy, the morning light streaming through unknown windows too bright. Everything feels wrong, including the fact that I’m wearing nothing but my underwear in a strange wooden room that smells of pine and coffee.
I groan and press my palms against my eyes, trying to piece together the fragments of last night. There was Joe’s Bar, Finn’s concerned face, too many beers, and then…nothing. Just a black hole where my memory should be. The room spins slightly as I attempt to sit up, my stomach lurching in protest.
The walls around me are bare wood, unfinished but smooth, giving the space a cabin feel. Through the window, I see snow-covered fields stretching toward the tree line. Familiar territory, but from an angle I don’t recognize.
My clothes are nowhere in sight, and panic starts to creep in around the edges of my hangover. Where the hell am I? This isn’t Finn’s guest room with its wall of vintage concert posters. This isn’t my house with its perpetual smell of apples and cider. This is…
The sound of footsteps makes me freeze. Heavy boots on wooden floors, coming closer. I clutch the blanket tighter, suddenly very aware of my near-naked state, as a figure appears in the doorway.
Bastian fills the frame, wearing a red-and-black checked shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry despite my cottony hangover. His jeans, perpetually worn through at the knees, fit him like they were painted on. He looks exhausted, with dark circles shadowing his eyes, his usual perfect posture slightly slumped.
“Where am I?” My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been gargling gravel.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The movement pulls his shirt tighter, and I force my eyes back to his face. “My place,” he says simply.
“Your…” I blink, trying to process this information through the fog in my brain. “This isn’t your place.”
He shifts his weight, and I catch a flash of something in his expression. Defensiveness, maybe, or irritation. “I own my place. I should know what it looks like.”
My thoughts tumble around in my head, pieces of memories I can’t quite assemble.
“Did we…?” I start, then stop, unsure how to phrase the question burning in my throat. “I mean, did anything happen…last night?”
“Like what?”
“Like…?” I point at me and then at him.
His expression shifts from tired to annoyed in an instant. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you think I’d take advantage of someone that drunk, but then again, you do have a habit of underestimating me.”
He turns and disappears from my line of sight, returning a moment later with a mug of coffee and two white pills that heplaces on the bedside table with more force than necessary. The coffee sloshes slightly, a few drops escaping onto the wooden surface.
“Take those, drink the coffee. Gouta wants to see you. I have work to do. See yourself out,” he says, already turning away.
