Chapter 8 #2
Even though I’m nearly eighteen and already in college, she still worries about me like I’m made of glass. Like I might shatter if she looks away for too long.
In high school, I had a midnight curfew, even senior year. The one time I forgot to text her that I was crashing at Hayes’s house in one of the spare bedrooms, she nearly called the police to report me missing.
I was an hour late.
Not a day. Not one week. One hour.
She grounded me for a month. Even Amber said she was being insane, and Amber never agrees with me. But once my mom’s fear locks in, there’s no reasoning with it. Safety and control are everything to her.
For years, I told myself I understood. I made excuses for her, rationalizing that trauma does that to people. My father walking out had to leave scars, and I figured this was just one of them. An overcorrection. A mother clinging too tightly because she’d already lost too much.
But now I know better.
Of course, she panicked.
In her mind, when I break curfew, I’m not just out a little too late. I’ve been taken. Dragged somewhere dark and unforgiving, somewhere no one comes back from. Monsters. Gods. The Underworld itself.
I check my messages, bracing for nuclear fallout. Instead, I find something I never expected—an extremely civilized exchange from 11:30 p.m.:
Hey Mel. Al fell asleep here. I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry. —H
Thanks, hon. She’s lucky to have you. Sleep tight!
I blink at the screen.
My best friend is a goddamn angel. Even after I’d been a total asshole to him earlier, he still had my back, still thought to cover for me.
“Thanks for texting my mom, Hay,” I whisper, setting the phone back down on the nightstand. “You’re the best.”
He opens one sleepy eye and grins.
“I am, aren’t I?” he says, eyes drifting lower. “Also, you might want to move that wine bottle before you kick it and break a toe.”
I glance down.
Sure enough, there’s an empty bottle of his mom’s fancy Greek wine tucked near my ankles. The glass is cool as I grab it, groaning under my breath.
“Shit. Did I seriously drink this whole thing?”
“No idea,” he says with a massive yawn. “When I found you half-comatose on the couch downstairs, you were singing to the dog, asking if he wanted to share.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“I did not!”
“You kept calling him Argyros.”
“Argyros? What’s that?”
He plucks the bottle from my hand and taps the beautiful gold-foiled label: Vinsanto Santorini Argyros.
“Ah.” I grin. “Actually, that’s kind of perfect. Regal. Let’s call him that.” Then, a little breathless, I add, “Wait… if I was downstairs, how did I get here?”
He flashes a slow, wicked grin, equal parts mischief and smug delight.
“I carried you.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“You carried me?”
As in… all six feet plus of quarterback muscle scooped me up like some rom-com fever dream? Did I really hear that right?
“Of course,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “You passed out two seconds after you finished serenading the dog. Couldn’t leave you there alone, all adorable and defenseless.”
My body lights up, a quick, involuntary rush sparking through me as I imagine his arms around me. Did he look at me tenderly? Brush the hair from my face as he gently laid me down on his bed, tucking me into his impossibly soft sheets?
Goddamn.
Why couldn’t I have been awake for that?
“Hay—”
But he’s already asleep again, breathing slow and steady.
Meanwhile, I’m lying here wide awake now, heart thundering, skin buzzing. He’s so close. One shift, one breath, and our bodies would be touching.
How am I supposed to sleep like this?
It’s hard to believe that once upon a time, lying in bed next to Hayes felt completely normal. Natural. But it did.
When we were little kids, Kora used to make us popcorn and sweet treats while we watched spooky cartoons in Hayes’s bedroom.
We’d stay up late in our matching Scooby-Doo pajamas—mine had Velma and ghost footprints, his had Shaggy with glow-in-the-dark eyes.
After the show, we’d curl up together, a tangle of blankets and sugar, as Kora quietly tucked us in for the night.
But that was years ago. We haven’t shared a bed since sixth grade. Now, lying beside him again, everything feels different. Charged. Electric. Like the air between us has been rewired.
I keep sneaking glances at him, unable to help myself.
He’s fast asleep, but somehow still impossibly gorgeous.
His lashes rest dark and thick against his cheekbones, lips parted just slightly.
There’s a softness to him like this—unguarded, peaceful—but also something dangerous, something magnetic.
He looks like some dark fairy-tale prince. Beautiful but forbidden.
I wonder—what would happen if I reached out and touched him? Just one fingertip brushing that soft lock of hair off his forehead?
Would he stir? Would he lean into me? Would he—
Suddenly, he rolls toward me, his arm snaking around my waist in one sleepy, unthinking motion. His grip is warm, strong. Possessive. Like he’s claiming me in his dreams without even realizing it.
He exhales softly, nuzzling into the curve of my neck, and I nearly detonate on the spot.
Oh. My. God.
I suck in a sharp breath, every inch of me frozen.
Does he know what he’s doing?
Should I move?
If Amber walked in and saw us like this, she’d murder me on the spot.
I should move. I should absolutely move.
Except… I don’t want to.
I don’t want to do anything ever again except lie here in Hayes’s bed, in his arms, forever.
My brain turns to mush. All I can think about is the way his fingers flex against my hip, the way my body is buzzing so hard I feel like I’m lit up from the inside.
And I know there’s no hope of me falling asleep now.
Not like this. Not with this much of him touching this much of me.
Not when every heartbeat feels like it’s screaming his name.
Sometime just before dawn, he shifts again and rolls away. His arms fall slack, and the heat between us fades as space creeps in, cool and quiet.
Only then do I let myself exhale.
Heart slowing. Limbs uncoiling. My eyelids drift shut and somewhere in that hazy space between waking and dreaming, it hits me—
I never told him about the letters.