Keegan towers over you, your back pressed against the wall. His hand against the plaster beside your head, eyes locked upon yours.

"I can't stop fucking thinking about you."

His mind consumed by your two-week old intoxicated confession. That you'd been having dreams about him.

His mind had been plagued with you since. His nights consumed with dreams of you, your body.

"Are you still having those damn dreams?"

He's in your room, at 2AM, and he wants some damn relief after his own dreams.