“You could’ve—”
“You were wasted, Heart. You could barely keep your eyes open.”
“You could’ve left me there!” I snap, crossing my arms so he can’t see my hands shaking.
“I asked for your keys. You said—and I quote—‘I’d rather eat them than give them to you,’ and then you threatened a streetlamp.”
Ugh.
Possible.
Very possible.
I turn back (don’t look, don’t look, don’t—okay, half a second, purely accidental), glare at him and fold my arms tighter.
“You. Should. Have. Left. Me. There.”
“Oh yeah? And when the streetlamp took it personally, what was your plan?”
I hate him.
I hate him because he’s right.
“And then you slept next to me? Why?” My voice goes high and sharp now.
He leans forward to turn off the water. Every movement pulls at muscles that would require fifteen years of therapynotto notice.
Then he looks at me.
Not arrogant.
Not smug.
Just… honest.
“Because when I tried to leave, you grabbed my shirt,” he says quietly. “And you said, ‘don’t go.’”
My stomach turns to ice.
“No, I—”
“I know. You weren’t fully lucid. But I couldn’t just… leave you alone.”
I scramble for something to say.
Anything clever.
Anything at all.
All I’ve got is static.
Before I can string two neurons together, we hear the bedroom door open.
“Cohen?”
Someone’s voice. Male. Close.
Instant panic.
