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“I think so. I don’t really know.”

Mikey hand came up, locking on my shoulder. He leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. No one was watching us. I knew that. And even if someone had been looking, Mikey’s touch wouldn’t have registered as anything other than friendliness.

But his hand on my shoulder, gripping me tight, made me recall all the ways we were more than friends. Made me think about our naked bodies, pressed together, his fingers hooked into my traps—exactly like they were now—as I dragged an orgasm out of him, my name a moan on his lips as he shot across my stomach.

He shook me lightly. “How did I not know your mom is a model?”

“We talked about this,” I gritted out, forcing myself to stop thinking about his thick, pretty cock.

“No, we did not. I would remember. No wonder you’re so goddamn pretty.”

I looped my fingers around his wrists, prying his hands away.

His grin faltered as I turned away, my stomach curdling. I was suddenly seventeen again, finding out the guy I was hooking up with was beating off to naked pictures of my mom.

I banged my forehead against the window to try and rid myself of the memory. The sky had been gray when we boarded the bus, but now the clouds were black and roiling.

“Uh, Cal,” Mikey whispered. “What is happening right now?” His hand landed on my knee, and I opened my eyes to stare down at it.

“Nothing’s happening,” I mumbled.

“C.” He ducked his head forward and tapped my knee. “Hey. Look at me. Please.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” I said back.

“Just so we’re clear, I don’t care that your mom was a model.”

I nodded in acknowledgment, though I wasn’t sure I fully believed them. Everyone cared, once they realized who she was.

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I was just, like, shocked or whatever.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mumbled.

“Seriously, C. You’re the only⁠—”

“What are you two whispering about?” Nielson leaned across the aisle, inserting himself into our conversation.

Mikey sat up quickly. “Mind your own business, man. We’re having a conversation.”

“Fuck you,” Nielson said, then leaned in closer. “Hey. Is Callahan sick?”

“No,” Mikey said at the same time I said “Yes.”

Mikey’s head swung my way, his eyebrows raised. “You are?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I feel … really not great.” My neck and forehead were slick, my fingers numb, my brain staticky.

“Oh.” Mikey pressed his palm to my forehead, presumably to check my temperature. “Fuck. You’re super clammy, Cal.” He pulled his hand away and swiped it over his pant leg.

“So that’s Hunt out for tonight,” Nielson said. “What about you, Ports?”

“You should go,” I told Mikey, turning to press my face against the window, the cold glass feeling nice on my overheated skin.

“No. I’m not leaving you alone.”