POV: Blair Maddox
He's so stiff it's almost cute.
Almost.
The music's pounding, bass shaking through my bones, the lights flashing red and blue over our heads like we're breaking a thousand laws just being here. Maybe we are.
I've got one hand curled around his, the other on his chest, dragging him into the dance floor like I've done this a million times. Because I have.
But not with him.
He looks lost. Gorgeous and lost and way, way too sober.
"You're thinking again," I say, leaning in so he can hear me. My breath brushes his ear. "That's illegal in here."
He flinches slightly, but he doesn't pull away. Not when my hands slide to his waist, not when I press my body against his. His breath catches. I can feel it.
Good.
"Relax," I purr, swaying my hips against his, my head tipped back. "It's just dancing."
Liar.
It's not just anything when I'm this drunk and he's this… him.
My vision blurs a little, but I like it that way. I like the way the world spins around me when I'm touching him. His hands hover awkwardly, like he doesn't know what to do. So I take them. Place them on my hips. He's warm, steady. So steady it's kind of unfair.
"Don't act like you hate this," I whisper.
"I—" he starts, but the words die in his throat as I grind a little closer. He's so tall, and strong, and clean. He smells like soap and restraint.
Everything I'm not.
My fingers are in his hair now, and he's finally touching me back. Not hard or dirty like the other boys, but like he's scared of breaking something. Like I'm fragile.
Like I matter.
That's dangerous.
I lean in again, my lips brushing his jaw. "You've never been with a girl like me, huh?"
He swallows hard. Doesn't answer.
I laugh, wild and bitter. "Good. I don't break hearts—I burn them."
He doesn't laugh.
He just looks at me. Really looks at me.
And for a second, I wish I wasn't drunk. I wish I wasn't me.
But the music's too loud, and my head's too light, and the vodka's still burning in my veins. So I press a kiss to his throat, slow and deliberate.
"Dance with me, Atlas," I murmur.
And this time, he does.
He really does.
---
I trip on the last step, and he catches me. Again.
God. He's always catching me.
"You're quiet," I say, tossing my head back to laugh at the sky. The stars blur. "Too quiet. Makes me nervous."
He doesn't answer.
Of course he doesn't.
He just grips my arm tighter, like he's afraid I'll collapse if he lets go. He's probably not wrong.
The parking lot is a mess of shattered bottles and cigarette butts. A fight just broke out near the entrance, but we slip through it like ghosts. I'm barefoot now. Don't know when I lost my heels. Don't care. My feet are black with dirt, my makeup's probably wrecked, and my dress is clinging to my skin like regret.
But he's still here.
Atlas-freaking-saint.
"Do you regret it?" I ask, swaying as I walk, half-dancing still. "The drink? The kiss? Me?"
He pauses.
I don't like the pause.
"Say something," I demand, spinning around to face him. My arms spread out like wings. I nearly fall. He grabs me by the waist. Again.
"You're drunk," he says finally, quietly.
"No shit, Sherlock," I mutter, pulling away. "I asked if you regretted it."
"I don't know," he says. Honest. Painfully honest.
It stings more than it should.
I look away. My head's spinning again. My body aches from the dancing, the drinking, the pretending.
"We need gas," he says after a beat, glancing toward the bike. "And water. You need water."
"You need to stop sounding like someone who gives a damn," I snap, turning away from him.
But even as I say it, I feel it.
The way his hand hovers near mine like he's still waiting for me to fall.
The way his gaze stays locked on me like I'm not the disaster everyone says I am.
And I hate it.
Because I want to lean into it.
Because I want him.
So instead, I laugh. Loud and reckless and fake. "Come on, professor," I say. "Let's find a gas station before you start lecturing me on liver damage."
And I walk ahead.
Barefoot, drunk, mascara streaked—and still waiting for him to follow.
He does.
Of course he does.