REMI
Thank God I found Sebastian.
I knew something was wrong. The need to protect him is so strong it feels almost primal, like it’s sharpened my instincts.
The moment I spotted him swaying under the strobe lights, that fragile back visible through the mesh of his top, I pulled him into my arms and felt a wave of relief wash over me.
But one look at his pale face, those dazed, unfocused eyes, and I knew my worries hadn’t been for nothing.
Now I’m crouched in a cramped club bathroom, holding back his damp hair while he’s hunched over the toilet, emptying what feels like his entire soul.
I murmur soft words, nonsense, mostly, anything to anchor him.
And yet, beneath the worry, another part of me wants to shake some sense into him.
What the hell was he thinking going off with Ian and drinking like that? He, of all people, knows how easily he can spiral. What if I hadn’t found him?
I shove the thought aside. No point tormenting myself with what-ifs.
This kid is going to be the death of me.
He’s already turned my life inside out, and it’s only been a few weeks.
God help me if this keeps up through the whole summer.
At last, the retching subsides.
I glance around for paper towels, but of course, nothing.
So I pull the clean handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to him.
Sebastian wipes his mouth, still silent, and then slowly turns to look at me.
I brace myself for guilt, for embarrassment, for some kind of apology.
But instead, he glances back over his shoulder, eyes glassy and gleaming… and smiles.
He actually smiles.
That damned dimple. Full force.
And right there, on the sticky, grimy floor of a nightclub toilet, with the stench of sweat and antiseptic all around us, I realize something with painful clarity:
I’m completely, irreversibly screwed.