Page 22 of The Chance

Mac just hums half of a response, his lids slammed closed over his eyes that I wish I could look into again and see more than just a bunch of sadness staring back at me.

I feel like I’m missing something.

“Vida.”

I shake him awake enough to climb out of the car so I don’t have to maneuver his lanky frame from inside it and don’t wait for another response before I wrap an arm around his waist and lift.

His long legs automatically wrap around my waist, his arms clinging to my shoulders.

It’s close.

Intimate to have his nose buried in my neck and his groin against my pelvis. His hooked ankles bopping over my ass.

The car beeps it’s locked notification as I poke blindly at the elevator call button. Once we’re secured inside, I wrap both arms around Mac’s middle and just … hold him to me.

Chest to chest, the beat of his heart syncing to mine.

The weight of him feels good in my arms.

That familiar tingling sensation creeps up my neck with each floor that passes and for once, I don’t fight the feeling.

Instead, I lean into it.

Turn my head into his neck.

Let my eyes slide closed and the heat of his trembling frame seep into me.

Maybe I can steal his anxiety through osmosis.

If I just grip him tight enough, will it leach out from his skin?

Dinging has my eyes snapping open, a flush rushing over my face at my lack of focus on our surroundings, and I walk us to his apartment door.

Realization has me pausing once inside and I clear my throat. “Do you … want— Are you okay? Should I—”

“Shut up and close the door. You’re letting the bugs in.”

I blink, letting out a weak snicker, but do exactly as he says. “Pretty sure there’s no bugs out there.”

“That’s what Ma used to tell us when we’d hang out the door to talk to our friends and shit.”

There’s a twinge inside my chest and I clear my throat again.

God, I’m all over the place.

“I’m tired,” Mac whispers into my neck, his words skating over my skin, and I suppress a shiver. “Will you … can we sleep on the couch again?”

“You have band practice tomorrow,” I say next to his temple, my lips moving against his hair. “You should sleep in the bed.”

He snorts, his breath puffing over my quickening pulse as I carry the drummer through the living room.

“You have to at least change.” I lift one hand from his back to pluck at the fishnet shirt he ended up in thanks to Aria.

I didn’t hate seeing him in it. Paired with his signature black holey jeans and worn-out white Chucks, he looked like a younger, happier version of himself.

Add in the eye liner and I felt like I was going to murder the owner of every set of hands that landed on him back at the club.

He clearly didn’t want them on him.

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