You told yourself that his cell number was only for emergencies, reminded yourself again and again that you wouldn’t put yourself in any kind of position.

And then you went out with a few of your friends, convinced that spending the better half of the night chatting up strangers and sipping sugary cocktails.

Maybe you ended up texting him at some point during your adventure. Maybe something that implied your longing to come visit.

To make a long story incredibly short, it wasn’t much after your brief text conversation that you were on your way to Tom’s house, a little more than tipsy.

He was such a sweet guy, it almost made you sick sometimes.

Almost.

At his place, he welcomed you inside, looking all sorts of soft and warm from sleep, like maybe he’d been out already, and was up at your first text.

He offers you a change of clothes—something comfortable to crash in—and you accept it immediately.

Sweatpants that bunch up around your ankles just a little, from being too long; a worn t-shirt, the print on the front faded beyond recognition.

A hoodie—deep maroon, lived-in and warm. It smells like him when you pull it on, and you have to remind yourself not to sit too long with the collar pressed to your nose.

You settle in Tom’s living room, curling up on his couch as your liver works through all the alcohol in your system.

Tom offers a glass of water. You accept graciously, sipping from the cup held in both hands, and he finds a spot on the opposite side of the couch, sinking into the cushions as he watches you with careful interest.

Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Like you are.