The floor beneath my bare feet threatens to give out on me as my brain tries to catch up with my body, but fortunately, the shooting pain in my head subsides somewhat now that I’m vertical. Instead, it’s the ache spreading through my arm and neck that have my attention now. Reminding me where I spent most of the night.

Memories assault what’s left of my brain in a series of fuzzy flashes as I force myself to take Waylon up on his offer and make use of the en-suite bathroom.

I remember Jeremy and I laughing until our stomachs hurt. Waylon’s raspy, infectious chuckle, and his wide smile as he shook his head at me at some point after he returned from his smoke. After I had stupidly drained another glass of Ivy’s concoction because Penn State was losing and I was desperate and, I repeat, stupid.

I remember the sensation of waves carrying me up, up, and away. A snap-shot of the toilet bowl splattered blue. A pair of soft, hazel eyes looking down at me. Soothing fingers in my hair.

My eyes flutter shut with shame and something else. Something I’m too tired to put to words right now. He shouldn’t have had to take care of me, and yet...

And yet.

The hot water feels like the worst kind of heaven on my skin. Head pounding, I quickly finish up my shower, running a loofah across skin that feels too tight for my body. Hell, even shampooing feels like straight up torture of the most medieval kind, but at least I feel somewhat functional by the time I dry off.

I sweep my gaze over the bathroom, wondering when I moved from the floor to the bed. There’s still a pillow sitting next to the toilet, and I remember vaguely using something else instead. Waylon’s lap.

Surely that was just a dream.

I scan the counter and sigh with relief when I see the mouthwash and open pack of toothbrushes left out.

Steam billows around me as I tighten the towel more securely around my waist as I make my way back into his bedroom. I slick back my hair and squint around the room, wondering how pissed off Waylon would be if I scrounge around for some sweats to borrow. I really don’t want to have to put my jeans back on.

Now that I’ve cleared away some of the cobwebs, I realize it’s the first time I’ve been in here, and it’s a far cry from that barren hellscape that was his childhood bedroom. Even if I didn’t know firsthand some of the horrors that went on behind closed doors, there was something just straight up sad about the fact Waylon’s old room spoke nothing of the boy he once was.