"You couldn't even pick up the phone."
His hand drops from my elbow. "We're not doing this here."
"When, then?"
"Not now." He reaches past me for my jacket and won't meet my eyes. "Let’s go."
The room tilts when I shift my weight. His grip returns automatically, steadying me.
"Let's go," he says, quieter now but no less final.
***
The ride home spins. I watch gravel blur beneath the headlights, the rhythm tugging loose memories I don't want. Too many nights riding shotgun in this truck. Mud on the tires. Music low. Silence that never needed filling.
Comforting. Disorienting. Both at once.
When he turns into the drive, my throat tightens.
"Eli," I say softly. "I'm sorry." We both know I’m not apologizing just for tonight.
He doesn't look at me as he cuts the engine. His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white.
"Don't." His voice is flat. "You’re drunk."
The words hit like a door slamming shut.
The porch light is already on. Aunt Mae stands in its glow. Eli opens my door and lifts me without comment, the motion smooth and practiced.
Mae's gaze flicks between us. "Eli," she says quietly.
He nods once, stepping through the doorway with me still in his arms. Mae holds the door open but doesn't say anything more.
Eli doesn't answer.
He carries me inside, moving through the house with the ease of someone who knows it as well as his own. He finds my room without hesitation and sets me down gently, hands lingering only long enough to be sure I'm steady.
I curl into the familiar shape of the bed, exhaustion pulling me under before I can fight it.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, a thought surfaces: I spent five years not needing anyone.
And the first night back, I needed him.
My body is still warm where he held me steady. I notice that. I hate that I notice that.
Sleep takes me before I can figure out why.
Chapter three
Hazel
The hangover hits before I even open my eyes.
I groan and roll onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow. My head pounds in time with my pulse, mouth dry, stomach rolling. Light leaks through the gap between curtain and window—too bright, too insistent.
The bar comes back in fragments—music, Chace's laugh, Shae's concern. Then Eli's hand on my elbow, his truck, his voice cutting through the haze:You're done.My breath catches at the memory.
I force myself upright, pausing when the room tilts. I breathe through it until the world steadies, then swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there longer than necessary, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
