“Oh.”
He rolls onto his side, crushing a pillow with his bicep.I wanna be in bicep jail.
“Can I ask you something?”
“I’d rather you not.”
He levels a stern look at me. It’s sexy. I hate it.
“Fine.”
“Do you…” Pink tints the tops of his cheeks. Is he…blushing? He watches me pinch the sheets and clears his throat. “Do you remember… showering?”
It’s a fever dream in shades of yellow and orange.
I nod.
He nods too.
“You said some things.”
I should’ve left. “If I made you uncomfortable?—”
His hand suddenly covers mine. “You didn’t.” I look up. Those eyes are so damn earnest. His gaze drops to our hands. “I’m just… worried about you.”
My stomach sinks. He doesn’tlikeme. Hepitiesme.
“Of course you are,” I scoff and start to pull away.
His fingers wrap around my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m not on drugs, so you can save the intervention speech.”
I yank my arm. It’s useless.
He arches a brow. “I never said you were.”
“You asked me what I took last night. I remember that much.”
He blows out an exasperated breath. “Would you stop being so difficult and lay down?”
I eye him skeptically. His cross pendant glints at me like a middle finger— a stark contrast to the pleading look in his eyes. After an interminably long minute, I reluctantly flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go.
My stupid heart skips a beat.
I’m fucking insufferable even to myself.
“I have to go to a fundraiser tonight,” he says. Immediately, I’m doing mental gymnastics again. There’s a deadline looming over my head. A countdown to madness.
“Cool. And?”
Can he hear the fear beneath my sass? Because I sure as fuck can.
“And.” His pointer finger traces a circle around my knuckle. “I want you to text me while I’m there.”
Oh shit. Those are definitely butterflies in my stomach. I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’mfucked.
