Time to prove that we’re not total fuckups.
I am restless.
Trapped in a cycle of replaying last night and this morning while I lay awake in the van.
Telling the guys has my thoughts whirling out of control, but worse than that, every time I close my eyes, I see Adam’s grin and feel his grip on my arms. It’s suffocating.
Just another thing to have nightmares about.
Yay.
The fairy lights cast the usual glow, and the radio is humming in the background, but I cannot make the memories stop. My heart races, and my breath comes in shallow gasps, a panic attack rising from deep inside me.
Without Saylor here to distract and ground me, I’m spiraling. Desperate for the smallest solace, I reach for Nash’s crumpled hoodie, hoping his scent will help. I pull it on and bury my face in the fabric, attempting to steady my breathing.
His smell is so familiar and comforting that my heartbeat slows, and the tears that were brimming in my eyes no longer threaten to spill. The fact that his scent can do that is something I can’t focus on right now.
I lay back down, my hands on my stomach, counting my breaths, when something crackles under my fingers. I reach into the hoodie pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. Opening it, I see it’s another poem. Despite knowing better, I start to read, and it’s just the distraction I need right now. But before I can finish, there’s a knock on the side of the van, making me jump. Hastily, I put the note in a drawer under the bed.
I look at the radio to see that it’s after midnight.
Adam wouldn’t come here to look for me, right?
There is another knock.
“Who’s there?” I ask, my voice trembling, while I reach for my phone.
But who would I call anyway?
A voice from outside replies, “Open up for me, pretty girl.”
Relief washes over me, and I put the phone back down.
It’s just Nash.
Fuck—it’s Nash.
I hesitate for a moment, taking a deep breath, before getting up and reluctantly sliding open the door. Nash stands there, looking disheveled and concerned.
“Nash,” I start, but he pushes his way inside and closes the door behind him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Nash grins when he looks down to see me wearing his hoodie, obviously pleased. Then his eyes find mine, and his expression grows serious as he sees my still-watery eyes. He surprises me by pulling me into a tight hug, and I try to push him away, but he whispers, “Get in bed.”
Is he fucking serious?
“Nash,” I protest. “What are you thinking? I’m not going to have sex with you.”
He nods in agreement, his eyes again locked onto mine when he leans back. “You’re not, but I need to hold you, and you need to be held. Get in bed.”
When I don’t move, he gently picks me up and places me in the bed before sliding in close beside me, pulling the covers over both of us. “Fuck, it’s cold in here.” He shivers as one arm slides under my neck and the other over my stomach, squeezing my back to his chest. “You need one of those heat blankets or something.”
“What I need is a heater,” I mumble. “And to know why you’re doing this.”
Being held like this? It feels like all my frayed nerves are calming down. Like I can finally calm down.
Because he is here.
He stays silent, just drawing patterns on my stomach over the hoodie, so I ask again, my voice soft this time. “Why are you here?”
