I take another swig of the bottle, keeping my eyes on him all the while. His chest rises and falls with a deep steadying breath. Wordlessly, I slide over the bottle and his shoulders tense ever the slightest.

“I think I’m done for the night,” he says slowly, quietly.

I want to ask why, but something tells me this is a good thing and what’s that saying about horses?

“What?”

I glance up, the room spinning as I take in Waylon’s confused smile as it slowly crawls up his cheeks, creasing his eyes. He looks so different tonight. Softer. Maybe it’s just the light. Or the slash of shadows under his jaw each time the room lights up.

Maybe it’s the heavy chain tying us to the past finally giving us a bit of slack.

What he said earlier when I showed up comes back to me, and I kind of want to touch him. See if any of this is real—if he’s real—or simply a product of wishful thinking on account of a whiskey-addled brain.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

My finger’s on his cheek. How the hell did that get there?

“You put it there,” he says, laughter rocking through his voice.

“Can you read my mind?”

“No, dumbass,” he says. “You said that out loud.”

He’s smiling, which means his dimples are out, which means the finger touching his face sinks in with his cheek.

I grin.

“You’re fucking hammered.”

He’s still laughing. Laughing is good.

“What—”

“These are gonna be the death of me one day,” I murmur.

His smile freezes, and I poke once more at the little divot, his light stubble scratching my finger. I watch how the soft flesh gives way before dropping my hand.

“Will—”

“I’m not sorry,” I tell him, “for going after the person I thought was hurting you back then. It’s a promise I should have never made in the first place.”

He flinches. His mouth tightens.

“But I am sorry it cost me you.”

“Stop,” he croaks through clenched teeth.

“And I’m sorry it was never enough.”

“Will.”

I shake my head, already knowing I’m digging myself into a hole I might never be able to climb out of, and yet I’m unable to stop myself.

We’ve reached the two-minute warning in this game we’ve been playing for what feels like my entire life. Tonight’s our last time-out, and I have nothing left to lose. As soon as the sun breaks free tomorrow, it will be over. It will be a tie: 0-0, because in the end, nothing has really changed. Not for me.

Maybe not even for him, and that’s the kicker, isn’t it?