Page 17 of About to Fall

I ignored that. I filled a glass of water and set it on the coffee table beside him along with two ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet. I pulled the throw blanket off the armchair and unfolded it.

Adrian was watching me do all of this from the couch—propped against the cushions with his legs stretched—and the expression on his face was one I'd never seen before. Softer than usual. Stripped of the smirk, the sharpness, the armour of irreverence he wore like a second skin.

“You're taking care of me,” he said. Not a question.

“I'm making sure you don't die on my couch. There's a difference.”

“No.” His voice went quieter. “You’re taking care of me. You do that.” His brow furrowed. “You take care of everyone.”

A beat.

“Nobody really does that for me. Cam tries but...” He shook his head slowly.

“And who’s Cam?” I tried to sound casual but failed. “Your girlfriend?”

He frowned. “I’m gay.”

Right.

“Cam’s my brother.”

For some stupid reason, something in my chest loosened. I fussed with the blanket so I didn't have to look at his face.

“Take the pills, Zhao. It will help with your hangover.”

He popped the pills and picked up the glass. Drank half of it. Set it down with exaggerated care and then looked at me again with those dark eyes that were glassy and unfocused yet somehow still managed to make my pulse stutter.

“Nicky.”

“What?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“If it will make you drink the rest of the water.”

He picked up the glass and finished it without breaking eye contact, this time the glass hit the table with a thud. “You're so beautiful.”

The room went very quiet except for the wild thumping of my heart.

“Like—” He motioned one ringed hand from my head to my chest. “A prince. Prince beautiful. It's annoying. Your whole—” another wave, less coordinated this time, “—face. Situation. The glasses. You're wearing those glasses and—” He squinted at me, searching for the right words. “I like looking at you.”

I stood there holding the throw blanket with my pulse hammering in my throat and absolutely no idea what to do with any of that.

“You're drunk. You need to sleep it off,” I said. My voice sounded strange to me. I hoped he was too wasted to notice.

“Okay.” He agreed, then tipped sideways on the couch and closed his eyes and was asleep within thirty seconds, one arm hanging off the cushion and his boots still on and the pearl necklace pooling against the hollow of his throat.

I stood there for far too long.

Then I spread the blanket over him, unlaced his combat boots and set them by the door. Refilled the water glass and put two more ibuprofen next to it. His mouth was hanging slightly open and his pink hair fanned across my throw pillow, and I thought about how he had said the word beautiful like it was a confession.

That was the part I couldn't get past. Adrian was an enigma—undeniably attractive, infuriatingly cocky, the kind of person who could have anyone he wanted and knew it. He moved through the world like consequences didn’t apply to him and attention was his birthright. People like that didn't call you beautiful and mean it. This was all some game to him.

Except he'd been too drunk for strategy. There'd been nothing calculated in it. Just some slurred words and that soft, unguarded expression I'd never seen on him before.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door and sat on the edge of my bed in the dark and pressed my hands against my face.

This is not happening, I told myself.