She whispers again:
“Don’t… go away.”
Three words.
Three stupid little words.
And I melt like a moron.
“Sloane, you’re drunk,” I murmur.
Maybe I’m saying it more to myself.
Maybe I’m begging myself not to jump off the cliff.
She doesn’t reply.
Her hand reaches out blindly, searching for something.
Someone.
And of course—
ofcourse—
I cave.
I walk back like I’m programmed to do it.
Sit at the edge of the bed—
just until she falls fully asleep, I tell myself.
She shifts, moving toward the center, and mumbles:
“Stay.”
Christ.
She doesn’t touch me more than that—
doesn’t try anything—
but it’s enough.
It’s worse than enough.
A sleeping request is more dangerous than a kiss.
More dangerous than her hands on me.
More dangerous than anything she's consciously done.
I slide under the covers beside her.
Yes, I’m an idiot.
Yes, I know.
