“You finally hate me then.” “You tell me?” I asked, slamming my bottle down on the desk. “What are my eyes saying, Cas? Do I hate you?” I could feel the alcohol in my bloodstream now, hot and fervid. I was taller now than the last time we’d been face to face, and from this angle I could see the faintest trace of circles beneath his eyes, a dullness in them that had never been there before – even when they were hard and cold, his eyes were always bright and sharp. His lips were pale and dry, but I’d never wanted to kiss them more. “No,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You don’t hate me. You
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