“Stop,” he says, and this time it ain’t a suggestion. It’s a command that shakes something in me.
I stare up at him, pupils blown wide, mouth open, trying to breathe through want and liquor and humiliation all at once.
The room around us swells, laughter and music and people watching.
And then, like a knife sliding under the dream, another presence cuts in.
A woman’s laugh.
Too polished. Too sharp.
Too close.
Bethany.
She’s at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on me like I’m something she’s about to crush under her heel. Lipstick perfect. Smile thin. Her gaze flicks to Oaks’ hands on my wrists, the way he’s holding me still, the way he’s too close, the way I’m pressed into him like I belong there.
Then she looks at me.
And I understand, in one sick flash of clarity, why she’s mad.
Not because he touched me.
Because I touched him in front of everybody.
Because I made it obvious.
Because I acted like his wife’s ring was decoration and not a warning.
Because I made a fool out of her without even meaning to, and women like Bethany don’t forgive that. They don’t cry. They don’t talk it out. They don’t take it private.
They make examples.
The dream tilts.
The music warps.
Oaks’ voice is in my ear again, urgent now. “Go home.”
“I don’t want to,” I whine, and it’s pathetic. I can hear it. I can taste it.
His grip tightens, and his eyes burn into mine like he’s trying to carve sense into my skull.
“You will,” he says. “Before you get yourself killed.”
Then the dream flashes, fast and jagged.
Stairs.
My boots by a door.
The hallway spinning.
Oaks’ arm around my shoulders like he’s holding me upright without letting me lean too hard.
His voice, low and rough, saying something I can’t quite catch.
Don’t.
