My hand hovers in the open air and I don’t know what just happened. Neurons fire every which way, but I can’t seem to land on a single thought before it’s stamped out.

Slowly, so slowly, I turn my head to face Waylon.

He won’t look at me. Why won’t he look at me?

“Way?”

He gives a little shake of his head.

There’s a loud roar in my ears, and I wonder if maybe I’m dreaming. If this is the point where consciousness starts to poke its little head in, and I’ll find myself waking up in my bed any second wondering how the last twelve hours were nothing but my vivid imagination playing the worst kind of tricks on me.

The screen door creaks open, startling both of us. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. What the hell are you boys doing?”

Waylon’s back is to me, so I don’t miss how quick he is to reach behind him and tuck the rolled up brown paper bag into the waistband of his sweats. He tugs his shirt down over it before running a hand through his hair. He says something to his uncle, but I don’t hear what it is. My brain is still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Waylon’s already heading inside when I finally manage to pry myself from the porch swing. I quickly brush off the ash piled on my jeans as stealthily as I can before Reggie notices.

Reggie holds the door open, waiting for me. “Get inside before I have to shovel your nuts off the porch.”

I grimace and do as he says. Behind me, he mutters something under his breath about dumbass kids and catching our deaths. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so preoccupied with replaying what just happened in my head, wondering what it means.

I follow Waylon to the kitchen, rubbing my frozen arms as I join him back at the table. I hear Reggie moving around the room, but all I see and know right now is the guy sitting directly across from me.

I watch Waylon laugh at something his uncle says. The silver barbell through his tongue winks out at me as he says something in response, dimples sinking deeply into his cheeks with his smile. Eyes crinkling in the corners. With the side of his neck bared to me, there’s no missing the bruise left from my mouth standing out dark and vivid against his pale skin. Right over his pulse.

Does he even realize it’s there?

Tired hazel eyes drag over to mine, brighter than I’ve seen in a long fucking time, if not ever. He seems to pause mid-sentence as his brow furrows at whatever he sees on my face. His mouth ticks up curiously.

I swallow hard.

“What?” he mouths.