“You were...fuck, you were everything to me,” he chokes out, something akin to wonder and disbelief threading through the thickness of his voice. “You were mine and—shit.” He laughs, short and bitter. I hear a smack and I picture him covering his face with his hands. His voice is muffled as he asks himself what the fuck he’s doing.

My arms hang lifelessly at my sides. The book I forgot I was holding is folded up tightly in my hand. I order my body to turn around, but I’m scared if I see him, this really will be just a figment of my imagination. A dream I’ve yet to wake up from.

Or worse.

“I knew it was wrong.”

Because why now? Where is this coming from?

Footsteps draw even nearer and I hold my breath.

Warmth hits my back, and I think how easy it would be to just let go.

To fall.

I feel the weight of his hesitation squeezing my chest. My body tingles with awareness, goosebumps skating down my spine, and I feel like I’ll jump right out of my skin if he doesn’t fucking do something—

A hand finds my free one. His fingers shake.

There’s a current of energy running between us. It pulls and begs, pulls and begs, and I’ve never felt as close to the edge as I do right now. My fingers flex and jerk and seek, but I can’t rush this.

I can’t fall yet, not when I can’t be certain he’ll still be there to catch me.

Cold fingers wrap around mine, punching the breath out of me. The edge of the doorframe digs into my forehead as Waylon squeezes, grabbing my hand fully. He’s somehow no longer shaking, or maybe it’s because I’m shaking so much; I can no longer tell the difference.

All I know is this feels right, and there’s no whiskey or darkness this time to convince me otherwise. Even my hangover seems to fade to the background as awareness lights up every nerve ending I have, and even the ones I wasn’t aware of.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive.

He tugs and tugs and tugs, and I’m turned around.

My back’s to the door and he’s so close I can feel his warm breaths on my chin. I reluctantly open my eyes, half expecting to finally wake up.

I’ll be back in my own bed, wishing for silly things that can never be, and the last ten minutes—no, the last ten hours, will have all been a dream.

Terrified, bright hazel eyes lock on to mine, and I’m powerless to try and escape.

Not a dream.

Not a dream.