“I gotta go.” His lashes flutter rapidly, startled. “What?” I walk around him, attention laser-focused on the pile of clothes I left by the bathroom door. The shirt’s wrinkled to shit, and I’m pretty sure there’s a blue vomit stain on my jeans, but at least my boxers are relatively clean. A hand grips my shoulder from behind just as I reach the door to the bathroom. “Don’t.” I freeze. With my back still to Waylon, I slide my eyes shut and count to three. “Don’t what?” His breaths seem to have sped up, and I can feel the warm puffs of air on my naked back. That’s how close he is. “Go,” he says
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