The shots keep coming. My laughter keeps spilling. But Jax keeps glancing at me, then at my phone, then at the clock. He’s measuring me, calculating the damage.
I didn’t notice at first that he slipped his own phone out. Didn’t notice the way his voice dips low, urgent, into the receiver. It’s only later, after the next line, after the next drink, after my head tips back against the booth and the world starts to blur, that I catch the tail end of it.
“…he’s bad, Lee. Real bad. Just—please come get us before this turns ugly.”
My head lolls, lips curling into a dangerous grin. Because even when he tries to stay away, even when he swears he needs space, even when he leaves me to rot in my own damn spiral—Leander always comes back.
The lights strobe, the bass rattles my ribs, and I’m high enough that everything feels like it’s humming under my skin. But none of it’s sticking. None of it’shim.
My head tips back against the booth. My throat’s raw from whiskey, my nose stings from the coke. I wonder if he’ll come. Or if he’ll leave me to rot because he’s not mine.
And I’m not his.
Then I see him. It’s like a hallucination at first, a trick of the lights. But no—there he is, cutting through the crowd like the whole damn world is making room for him.
All black. A compression shirt hugging his chest, fabric stretching across every hard line of muscle. Jeans fitted enough to show the narrowness of his waist, the long stride of his legs.
My mouth goes dry. My blood spikes so fast it’s dizzying.
Fuck.
My Leander.
My heart lurches against my ribs like it’s trying to claw free. He’s too perfect, too sharp against the haze of this place. And he’s here for me.
I’m on my feet before I even think, shouldering through the crowd, ignoring the hands that try to pull me back to dance. He sees me coming, jaw tight, expression unreadable, and that only fuels me more.
By the time I reach him, I’m already grabbing his wrist, tugging him off the floor. He resists just enough to make my chest ache, but he follows. I drag him down the narrow hall past the bar, past the line for the women’s bathrooms, past a couple making out in the hall. The door of the men’s restroom slams behind us, the bass muffled but still pounding through the walls.
“Phoenix—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish. I shove him back into the nearest stall, lock clicking behind us.
The space is small, claustrophobic, my body crowding his, caging him in. The overhead light buzzes faintly, flickering, catching on the angles of his face. He’s flushed, annoyed, but so fucking gorgeous I can barely breathe.
“Why are you dressed like that? Were you on a date?” I demand, voice rough, too loud. My hands slam against the wall on either side of his head. “Is that why you didn’t call? You already fucking forgot me?”
His brows pull together. “What? No.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice cracks, the words slurring into something raw. “You walk in here looking like—likethat—and you expect me to believe you were just… what? Sitting at home?”
“I wasn’t at home.” His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. I can’t believe he’s having fun while I’m shattered into pieces. “I was at the gym. Phoenix, you’re drunker than I thought you’d be.”
The tease stings, but it also burns straight through me. Because he’s here. He came. He didn’t leave me hanging forever.
I lean closer, so close my breath lands against his cheek. “Why didn’t you call, Lee?”
He swallows, eyes darting away for half a second before coming back to mine. “I needed space.”
“Space.” The word tastes like poison. I laugh, sharp and broken. “You think I can breathe without you? You think I canexistwithout you?”
His chest rises against mine, shallow, uneven. My hands drop from the wall, sliding over his shoulders, down his chest, gripping his waist like I’ll die if I let go.
“You don’t get it,” I whisper, forehead pressing against his. “I can’t stop. I can’t stop needing you. It’s like—fuck—it’s like you’re under my skin, in my blood. I can’t?—”
The words choke me, too close to what I’ve never said to anyone. Too close to something that sounds likelove.
His lips part, just a fraction, and I can’t help myself. I crash my mouth against his, desperate, messy. His taste cuts through the coke and whiskey, clean and familiar, better than air.
He lets me. For a moment, helets me. His hands lift, fingers tangling in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I swear I could drown right here in this stall and not care.
