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Obviously, I knew this—I knew it the second I saw him—but now I smell it too. Wafting off his skin.
His eyes redden, glimmering, and I don’t think it’s just because of the alcohol swimming through his veins. Pulling back, I set him on his feet, gripping his shoulders to balance him when he starts to teeter.
I’m vaguely aware of Micah walking away to give us some privacy.
Leveling Skyler with a fierce look, I say, “It’s okay.”
And it is. He’s twenty-one. He’s not an addict. I’d expect nothing less.
“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” he whispers. I have to strain to hear him over the music and chatter.
“I know. I’m not mad.”
Skyler stares hard at my chest, blinking with an intensity that tells me he’s starting to maybe spiral. It occurs to me I never asked if he could drink. Okay, that’s stupid. Of course hecan…
But I never thought to question how it might make him feel.
I imagine it could go either way—exacerbate his sensory sensitivities, or numb him to them. And both are dangerous.
Call me selfish, but I hope it’s the latter for him. I hope it makes himnotwant to drink. Not just for my own sake, but his.
Still, that’s a concern for another time. He knows his limits, and if this is something he felt he could do, then I have to respect that.
“I missed you,” I admit, running my hand through his hair. It’s longer than it was back when we were on the island, curling thickly around his ears, at the nape of his neck. I kind of love it. It’s wild and untamed, and so perfectly him. “It didn’t feel right being away.”
He frowns. “But your daughter…it’s Christmas. You should be with your family.”
Curling my fingers under his chin, I lift his face away from my chest. His eyes dart to mine, then away, and something in me sinks.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and I frown, about to ask him what for. But then his fingers grip my waist, squeezing, and I…well, I think I get it.
Nodding, I force a swallow and bend down, putting my lips right next to his ear. He doesn’t need to look at me if it’s too much right now. But I do need him to hear me.
“You’re my family too.”
He stills.
“And I love you.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he didn’t hear that second part at all. Not a single intake of air. Not a twitch. Nothing. The fingers latched around my waist might as well be a part of my clothes.
Concern overrides any hurt feelings, and I can’t help but duck down and seek out his gaze. Or at least his expression. Something, anything to tell me I didn’t just massively fuck shit up.
It’s his lips that move first—shivering, like a leaf.
And then it’s eyes blinking rapidly, those thick black lashes fluttering about like a butterfly’s wings.
“You don’t have to say anything back,” I assure him in a deep hush. “I’m just telling you why I’m here. Why I couldn’t stay there.” I pause, searching his downturned face. “And maybe it feels too fast for you—”
He gives a rapid shake of his head and I have to suck back a chuckle, before forcing myself to go on.
“But I do,” I tell him simply. “I love you. And the idea of spending another Christmas without you, when you’re literally right across town? Yeah, no.” I pause. “And you being drunk doesn’t change that, okay?”
A moment passes where my words just sit heavily between us.
And then slowly, surely, his hand around my waist slides around my back. Both arms come around my middle, and he ducks his chin toward his chest, pressing his cheek right over my heart.
I fit my arms around him, holding him tight—so tight, I feel his muscles constrict, just like he likes it—and I bury my face in his messy hair.
