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“No.”
I arch a brow. “No?” I look around and say, “Why the fuck not? You’re here. I’m here. No one else is. And it’s fucking prom.”
He gapes at me, bewilderment and something else—something I can’t name—peering back from the achingly haunted amber depths of his eyes.
But I don’t look away.
Especially when I say, “You should have all the same things they do in there. Now get the fuck over here, before I drag your ass inside to do this instead.”
His jaw drops, and I arch a pointed brow, telling him without words I mean it.
“But I’m…a guy. And I’m gay. You’re not, you’re?—”
I scowl. “If they see us, they see us. What the hell are they gonna do?”
His eyes are big and wide on mine.
Rather than wait for him to argue some more, I invade his space, grab his wrists and throw his arms around my neck.
He sucks in a sharp breath, one that is quickly squashed by a scowl. It carries no heat though. If anything he seems amused.
“I’m not a girl,” he drawls, and moves his arms, jostling mine where they need to be in the process. Making it so like we’re hugging instead.
I roll my eyes, stepping right up against him. “Didn’t realize there were genders to how one dances.”
He snorts slightly at that, his hands coming around my back.
I don’t miss the slight hitch in his breath, or faint tremor in his fingers, or the pink in his cheeks just before he ducks his head.
We’re chest to chest, hands splayed across each other’s backs, and we start swaying slowly, kind of awkwardly, and way out of rhythm to the song still playing.
But I don’t care.
And he doesn’t even seem to notice, too busy being all tensed up and staring at our awkwardly shifting dress shoes.
“C’mere,” I rasp, and place a hand on the back of his head, guiding it to my shoulder.
My chest expands at the same time his does. His cheek rests against my shoulder, and even through my suit jacket and dress shirt, I can feel the hot puffs of uneven breaths skating down my upper arm.
He’s all lean, barely-there muscle, and flat planes, and sharp edges against me.
It’s unfamiliar, and not—holding him to me like this.
Except we’re not horizontal this time.
And I’m awake. We’re both awake.
And I’m sober. Mostly. Sober just enough that every little stab of agony in my chest can be felt acutely, and without mercy.
I ache and I ache, and yet, when I turn my head just so, silky golden blond hair flutters up against my nose with my inhale, settling me some. Reorienting my senses—my entire being—grounding me to this moment, and this moment only.
“You will have this,” I find myself saying quietly, my voice thick. “Of course you will have this.”
Jeremy says nothing, but his arms tighten, so I know he’s listening.
“And you won’t have to hide anymore. Not from this town, not from yourself…not from anyone. Whether that’s here, or…or…”
“Mason…” he murmurs when I can’t get the words out. He turns his face, pressing his nose into my neck.
