“Well, it’s not funny.”
He chuckles, pulling the roasted marshmallow off the end of his stick. He leans a little closer as he pops it into his mouth, lips smacking obnoxiously. “You’re awfully protective of Hunter for someone who’s just a friend.”
Anger boils inside me, threatening to spill over. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Maybe you should learn to keep your opinions to yourself.”
Before our exchange can escalate further, Hunter’s hand clamps gently but firmly around my wrist. His grip is light, but there’surgency in it. “Mase… I don’t feel good,” he mutters, voice unsteady. “I… I want to go to bed.”
I glance down at him, and all my anger drains out in an instant. The tension in my body shifts, replaced by a protective instinct. “Okay,” I murmur, letting him guide me back toward the house.
Travis watches us go, his smirk faltering slightly. Inside, the crowd has thinned to a few lingering guests chatting in the dining room with Hunter’s parents.
Hunter leans heavily against me, his steps uneven. At the staircase, his foot catches the edge of a rug, and he stumbles hard. I grab him under the arms before he falls to the floor. He straightens slowly, rubbing his forehead.
“Think you had too much to drink,” I mutter.
He shakes his head firmly, trying to recompose himself. “ ’m fine,” he garbles.
He’s clearlynotfine. His eyes are hazy, his head lolling as if it’s too heavy for his neck. Without another word, I scoop him up, bridal style. He lets out a startled yelp before burying his burning face against my throat. I hold him tighter, focusing on his solid warmth, the steady thump of his heart against my chest, as I carry him upstairs.
His childhood bedroom waits at the end of the hall, door cracked open. I nudge it wider with my shoulder and carry Hunter inside, shutting out the ruckus of the party.
Our bags sit at the foot of his bed, which looks like it belongs in a hotel—dark purple comforter smoothed perfectly over crisp white sheets, everything tucked and wrinkle-free. I set him on the mattress, and he immediately rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in a pillow.
“Remind me to never drink again,” he mutters, voice muffled.
I shake my head, letting my gaze drift around his room. It’s large—even bigger than the one he rents back in Claremont Shores. The walls are painted a deep moss green that makes the space feel grounded. The decor leans toward dark academia with framedbotanical diagrams, black-and-white photographs, and a few shelves crowded with old books.
I step toward a corkboard on the far wall. It’s cluttered with pinned pieces of his past. There’s a photo booth strip of him and Derek as teenagers, pulling a series of silly faces and holding up peace signs. The gap between Hunter’s two front teeth was even wider back then.
Another photo shows him and Landon as little kids, maybe five or six years old, dressed in matching outfits with identical smiles, their arms slung around each other like they were inseparable. It’s hard to reconcile those two boys with the distant and tense brothers I saw tonight.
“Why are you so far away?” Hunter squeaks from the bed.
“Sorry. I’m just snooping,” I mumble, shifting awkwardly on my feet. “Should I—uh, should I go into the guest room?”
He pouts, stretching his arms out toward me in a clumsy grab. “Don’t be silly. You’re staying here. Cuddle with me.”
Relief loosens my chest. Thank God. I’d been hoping he’d say that, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
Smiling sheepishly, I cross the room and slide in beside him. He tucks his forehead against my chest, breathing deep.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly. “Travis was—”
“I don’t wanna talk about him right now,” he says, wincing.
I nod, silently conceding as my hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades. I grab the water bottle from his backpack, but it’s empty. “I’ll go refill this. You need to hydrate.”
He grumbles in protest, fingers catching my T-shirt, but I ease out of his grip and head downstairs. In the kitchen, I fill the bottle at the sink, listening to the softened bass of rap music spilling from the patio outside.
“Hunter’s a lightweight.”
I turn at the sound of a graceful, confident voice. Derek leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his barrel-shaped chest. His presence fills the space—broad shoulders, calm stare, quietly imposing.
“Yeah,” I say after a beat, forcing a smile. “He’s pretty wasted.”
Derek’s mouth quirks. “You should’ve seen him back in high school. He used to get shitfaced off a single wine cooler.” He pushes off the wall and steps into the kitchen, nodding at the bottle in my hand. “Taking care of him?”
“Trying to,” I say. “He’s upstairs, lying down.”
