"Water," I said. Found a glass on his desk and filled it from the mini-fridge's filtered water thing—because of course Alex had filtered water."Drink."
He took the glass. Drank. Some of it ran down his chin and he didn't wipe it. His composure was gone—stripped away by hours of vodka.
I knelt down. Untied his shoes. Pulled them off one at a time. Set them by the desk—lined up, the way he'd want them when he was sober enough to notice.
"Lie down," I said. "On your side."
He didn't. He sat there on the edge of the bed, swaying, watching me with those glassy blue eyes. Underneath them was something I'd never seen before. Not the guarded Alex. Not the performing Alex. Something younger. Unfiltered.
"You came," he said.
"Told you I would."
"I told you not to."
"Yeah. You did."
He reached out and caught the front of my hoodie. Not pulling. Just holding. His fingers curling into the fabric like it was the only solid thing in a tilting room.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
My chest seized.
"Alex—"
"I mean it." His eyes were wet. Not crying—just the glassy sheen of someone who'd drunk enough to dissolve every wall they'd ever built. "You're the best thing. And I ruined it. Two years ago. At the lake. I just—cut you off. Like you were nothing."
"You were scared."
"I was a coward." He shook his head. Slow. Like even his neck was too tired to hold the weight. "I've regretted it every day. Every single day since. I'd lie in bed thinking about you. What you were doing. If you hated me."
"I did hate you." Honest. Because he deserved honest. "For a while."
"You should still hate me."
"I don't."
His hand tightened on my hoodie. Pulled me a half step closer. I could smell the vodka on his breath, the cold still clinging to his jacket.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "Even when I'm angry. Even tonight. Sitting on that porch with Braden in my face—all I could think about was you."
Something hot and tight was building behind my ribs. Not anger. The other thing. The one I spent most of my time pretending didn't exist.
"You need to sleep," I said.
"I need you." His eyes moved over my face. Down. The shift was sudden—the vulnerability giving way to something darker.Hungrier. "Do you know what you look like right now? In that hoodie with your hair all—" He bit his lip. "God. You're so fucking hot."
My whole body responded. Instant. Involuntary. Heat flooding south before my brain could intervene. Because Alex Harrington telling me I was hot with that wrecked voice and those glassy eyes was doing things to me that no amount of self-control could override.
"Alex. You're drunk."
"I know." He tugged my hoodie again. Harder this time. I stumbled forward—caught myself with a hand on the mattress, one knee between his legs. Close. Too close. His face tilted up. "Kiss me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you've had enough vodka to kill a small horse and I'm not doing this while you can't—"
