What the hell is she thinking?

"Theo?" Peyton's voice cuts through the noise, sounding frustrated as she tries to get my attention.

I turn to her, forcing a tight smile. "Sorry about this," I say, though my focus is already back on Isla. She's managed to climb onto a table, her movements wild, a bit sloppy. I can barely make out what she's saying over the pounding music, but the grin on her face and the hollering guys around her tell me all I need to know.

Peyton follows my gaze, her brows knitting together in a frown as she watches Isla. "I get it, but you still haven't answered my question. Do you want to go out tomorrow night?"

I barely hear her. Isla's hands are at the hem of her top, fingers fumbling as she giggles, swaying dangerously close to the edge of the table. The guys are practically drooling, shouting for her to keep going. My stomach tightens with something dark and unfamiliar.

"Yeah, sure," I say quickly, not fully aware of what I'm agreeing to as I start pushing through the crowd toward Isla.

Before she can do anything else, I scoop her up, tossing her over my shoulder. She lets out a loud, slurred squeal, half-laughing, half-protesting, as I turn and carry her out, ignoring the cheers and laughter that follow us.

"Put me down!" she slurs, wriggling against me, her fists lightly thumping my back. "Theo, I wasn't done having... fun!"

"You're done," I mutter, my grip tightening as I make my way through the crowded hallway, determined to get her outside before she does something she'll regret.

The cool night air hits us, and I set her down on the sidewalk, keeping a steadying hand on her arm as she sways, blinking up at me with glassy eyes. She's unsteady, her hair falling messily over her face, and she can barely keep her balance.

Her gaze wavers, struggling to focus on me. "Theo... Theo, wh-what are you doing?" Her words are slurred, her tone irritated but faintly amused, like she's in on some private joke.

"What the hell were you doing, Isla?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended, slicing through the cool night air between us. But I can't stop it. Not when the image of her on that stage, about to strip in front of a crowd of guys with their eyes glued to her like she was some kind of prize, is still branded into my mind. It's got my chest twisting in ways I don't want to think about, ways I can't even begin to explain to her.

Her brows knit together, the hazy, unfocused kind of confusion only alcohol brings. She wobbles on her feet and gives me a glare that would probably have more bite if she weren't so gone. "I was... having a good time!" The words slur together, each syllable heavier than the last. Then she pouts, that defiant curve of her lips something I know too well. "I'm... allowed to have fun, Theo. Not like you. All... serious and... boring."

I sigh and drag a hand through my hair, trying to stop the frustration bubbling in my chest from spilling over. "Is that what you call it? Getting drunk and putting on a show for a bunch of guys who couldn't care less about you?"

Her expression shifts, something flickering across her face—hurt, maybe. I'm not sure because it's gone in an instant, replaced by a shrug that's almost careless. "Why do you care?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I can't stop the laugh that escapes me. It's not the kind of laugh that belongs in this conversation. It's sharp, bitter, the kind that draws attention from the lingering crowd. I don't care. Not about them, anyway.

But her?

"Why do I care?" I repeat, because she can't seriously be asking me that. Leave it to Isla to be oblivious to the obvious, even after I laid it all out for her a month ago.

She blinks up at me, her head tilting slightly like she's trying to figure me out through the fog in her brain. But she's not saying anything, just staring at me with those glassy eyes, and it's fraying the last of my patience.

Then she does it. She laughs. A soft, airy sound that might've been beautiful if it weren't so completely maddening in this moment. "Do you like Peyton?" she asks, her voice slurring.

The question catches me off guard like a slap, knocking the breath right out of me.

"What?"

"Peyton," she says again, slower this time, like I didn't hear her the first time. "Do you like her?"

My jaw tightens as I stare down at her, the alcohol making her sway slightly. Her lips might be spilling nonsense, but her eyes—they're saying something else. They're pleading. Vulnerable. And that? That guts me.

"You're drunk, Isla," I mutter, my voice low as I rub the back of my neck, trying to keep my frustration in check. "This isn't the time for—"

"She's pretty," she interrupts, stumbling slightly but never looking away from me. "Like... really pretty. Perfect, you know? All curvy and... runway ready or whatever." She throws her hands up in a weak gesture that makes me want to grab them just to stop her from falling over. "She's perfect. You should be with someone like her."

I exhale, long and slow, trying to keep the reins on my temper. "Jesus, Luna"

She stares at me, her lips parted like she's waiting for me to say something. Maybe waiting for me to agree.

I take a step closer, closing the gap between us. "You don't get it, do you?" I ask, my voice low, rough around the edges.

Her brows knit together again, her head tilting like she's trying to understand, but it's not clicking.

"You're perfect, Isla," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "You've always been."

The breath she sucks in is sharp, but her gaze drops to the ground, her confidence cracking right in front of me.

"Don't," she whispers, her voice breaking on the word. "Don't say things you don't mean, Theo."

I take another step closer, and when I reach out, my hand cups her chin, gently forcing her to look at me. "You think I don't mean it?" My voice is quiet now, but there's nothing soft about it. "You think I'd waste my breath on something I didn't mean? Isla, you drive me insane—every damn day—but I wouldn't change it. Not for anything."

Her lips part, her eyes searching mine like she's trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke. But it's not. It's as real as the way her presence has a chokehold on me every time she's around.

She takes a shaky breath and mutters, "Then why have you been avoiding me?"

The words hit me like a freight train, knocking the air from my lungs. I knew this was coming. She's not the type to let something like that slide, drunk or not. But hearing it—hearing her say it—makes everything that's been building inside me feel too big to contain.

"I haven't been—" I start, but she cuts me off with a sharp laugh.

"Don't lie," she says, her voice trembling, her hands balling into weak fists at her sides. "You... you've barely looked at me since... since..." Her voice breaks again, and her lip quivers.

"Since I told you I love you?" I say it for her, my tone sharp, my heart pounding so hard it's a miracle she can't hear it.

Her eyes widen, and I step closer, close enough that I can see the tears forming in them. "Isla, I gave you space because I didn't know what the hell to do when you didn't say anything. When you didn't—" I stop myself, taking a deep breath, my voice softening. "I've been avoiding you because I couldn't handle being near you if you didn't feel the same."

Her breath hitches, and I see it—the vulnerability cracking through her drunken haze, her guard slipping just enough for me to catch the glimmer of hope in her eyes.

Isla stares at me, her glassy eyes wide and shimmering, and for the first time tonight, she's quiet. No snarky comeback, no drunken rambling—just the sound of her shallow breaths mixing with mine in the chilly night air.

Her lips part like she's about to speak, but no words come out. Instead, she takes a shaky step closer, and my chest tightens. Every instinct in me screams to close the distance, to pull her to me, to fix this mess we've been drowning in for weeks. But I don't. Not yet.

"You think I didn't feel anything?" she finally whispers, her voice cracking. "That I don't feel anything?"

Her words hit me like a freight train, and for a moment, I can't move. "I don't know what you feel, Isla," I say quietly. "You never told me. You just... you just stared at me."

Her head drops, and she wraps her arms around herself, like she's trying to keep from falling apart. "I didn't know what to say," she mutters, her voice so soft it almost disappears. "You... you blindsided me, Theo. You said all these things, and I wasn't ready. I didn't think you—" She stops, biting her lip hard enough that I almost reach out to stop her.

"You didn't think I what?" I press, my voice sharper now, the raw edge of frustration cutting through.

She doesn't answer, her silence heavier than any words.

"Talk to me, Isla," I say, stepping closer, my tone softening even as the desperation creeps in. "Tell me what's going on in your head. Because I've been standing here for weeks, trying to figure out if I ruined everything between us."

Her head snaps up, and her brows draw together in that familiar way—like she's about to argue. But then her lips tremble, and her shoulders slump, and she looks... tired.

"You ruined nothing," she says, her voice thick. "But you've been avoiding me, Theo. You said all that stuff, and then you just—" She pauses, exhaling a shaky breath. "You just left me standing there like none of it mattered."

My chest tightens at her words, guilt twisting inside me. She doesn't know. She doesn't understand why I stayed away.

"I wasn't avoiding you," I say, stepping closer until we're only inches apart. "I was giving you space. I didn't want to push you, Isla. Not after you didn't..." My throat tightens, the words catching. "Not after you didn't say anything back."

Her lips press into a thin line, and she looks away, her gaze darting somewhere over my shoulder. "I didn't know what to say," she says again, her voice quieter this time.

"That's fine," I say, my voice low but steady. "But you have to understand how hard it's been, Isla. Seeing you, not knowing where we stand... not knowing if I've completely messed this up."

Her gaze flickers back to mine, and something softens in her expression, though the guarded look in her eyes doesn't disappear.

"You didn't mess it up," she says after a long pause, the words barely above a whisper.

Relief washes over me, but it's laced with the same ache that's been sitting in my chest since the night I told her how I felt. Because this limbo we're stuck in? It's killing me.

"Then what are we doing, Isla?" I ask, my voice rough as I take another step closer. "Because I can't keep pretending like this doesn't hurt. Like you don't matter to me."

Her eyes widen, and she stumbles back half a step, her breath catching. "Theo..."

"No," I cut in, my voice firm but not angry. "I'm not trying to put you on the spot. But I need you to understand, Isla—you do matter to me. More than anything. And whether you're ready to talk about it or not, that's not going to change."

She stares at me, her lips parting like she wants to say something, but no sound comes out. Instead, she presses her hands against her temples, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I can't... I can't do this right now," she whispers, the words breaking as they leave her.

My chest tightens, but I nod, even though it feels like my heart is splintering. "Okay," I say softly, stepping back. "But when you're ready, I'll be here."

Her head snaps up, her eyes locking with mine, and for a moment, I swear I see something—something real and raw and unguarded. But then it's gone, and she's swaying slightly, her exhaustion and the alcohol catching up to her.

"Come on," I say gently, moving closer to steady her. "Let me get you home."

She doesn't argue. She just lets me guide her, her head drooping slightly as we walk. And even though the ache in my chest hasn't gone anywhere, I know one thing for sure: I'll wait as long as it takes.

We start walking, her body leaning into mine for support. The silence between us is heavy, broken only by the distant thrum of music from the party fading into the background. My arm is wrapped around her waist, steadying her as she stumbles, the alcohol clearly still working its way through her system.

By the time we reach her dorm, she's rummaging clumsily through her bag, pulling out random items—a lip gloss, a crumpled receipt, and what looks like a stray sock—but no keys.

"Keys," I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "Where are they?"

She squints down at the mess in her hands, her brows furrowing like it's the most complicated question in the world. "I dunno," she mumbles, looking up at me, confused. "Maybe I... lost them?"

I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. "You didn't lose them. You probably left them at the party."

Her eyes widen like I've just told her the world is ending. "Theo, what do I do? I can't..." She trails off, her voice full of panic that's as unnecessary as it is endearing.

"You're coming with me," I say simply, already steering her in the direction of my place. "You'll stay at mine tonight."

She blinks up at me, her glassy eyes wide, like the idea of staying at my place has never crossed her mind. "Your place?" she repeats, her words slurring slightly before she breaks into a lazy grin. "Okay, but... you have to carry me."

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. "Carry you?"

"Yes, Theo," she says, her tone deadly serious despite her drunken sway. "I'm tired."

How can I say no to that?

"Alright," I sigh, crouching slightly and turning my back to her. "Hop on."

She lets out a small giggle as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, her weight shifting as she clumsily climbs onto my back. I grab her legs, securing her in place as I straighten up, her chin resting lightly against my shoulder.

"You good back there?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I start walking.

"Mhm," she hums softly, her head leaning against me, her voice barely audible.

The streets are quiet, the night air cool against my skin. Her breathing slows, and I can feel her relaxing against me, her arms snug around my neck.

Out of nowhere, she whispers, "I missed this. I missed you."

My steps falter, her words hitting me harder than they should. They're not loud or dramatic, but they're raw. Honest.

"I missed you too, Luna," I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

When we get to my apartment, I set her down carefully. She wobbles, her hands catching on my chest to steady herself. The warmth of her touch lingers, and for a moment, she just stands there, looking at me with half-lidded eyes that seem to hold a thousand unspoken words.

"Thanks for the ride," she says softly, a small giggle escaping her as she sways on her feet.

"Let's get you sorted," I reply, steering her toward the bathroom.

The second we step inside, I see it happen—her face pales, and she sways again. I guide her quickly to the toilet just in time. She drops to her knees, and I'm right there with her, holding her hair back as her body shakes.

I rub slow circles on her back, murmuring quiet reassurances as she leans over the bowl. When it's over, she slumps back against the wall, her face flushed and tired.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbles, barely able to meet my eyes.

"Don't apologize," I say, grabbing a clean towel and dabbing it gently across her face. "It happens."

She looks up at me, glassy-eyed and vulnerable, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a mess."

"You're not," I reply, my tone firm but soft as I move to grab one of my T-shirts from the dresser. "You're just... you. And that's enough"

Her lips twitch, like she wants to smile but doesn't quite have the energy. "Can you help me?"

"Of course," I say, crouching beside her again.

I slip the T-shirt over her head, being as careful as possible not to make her feel more embarrassed than she already does. But as the fabric falls into place, my gaze catches on the curve of her collarbone, the soft line of her shoulders.

For a moment, I let myself take her in, my chest tightening before I force myself to look away. This isn't the time.

"Thanks," she murmurs, her voice so small it almost disappears.

"Anytime," I reply, adjusting the shirt so it falls properly before stepping back. "Let's get you comfortable."

But just as I turn to leave, her voice stops me.

"Do you hate me?"

I freeze, her question hanging in the air like a storm cloud. When I look back at her, she's staring at me, her lashes fluttering heavily, her expression unsure and... scared.

"Do you think I hate you?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

She shrugs, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. "You've been avoiding me," she says, so softly I almost don't catch it. "And I don't know... if it's because of what you said, or if it's because of me."

My heart clenches at the raw vulnerability in her voice.

I step closer, crouching down until we're eye level. "I don't hate you, Isla," I say firmly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I could never hate you."

Her eyes search mine, like she's trying to figure out if I mean it.

"Promise?" she whispers, her voice trembling.

"I promise," I say, my voice quiet but steady.

She leans her head against the wall, her lashes fluttering shut as she exhales. "Okay," she mumbles, her voice barely audible.

"Come on," I say gently, lifting her into my arms. She doesn't protest, just melts into me as I carry her to the bed.

Tucking the blanket around her, I let my hand linger for a moment, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She's peaceful now, her breathing even and soft, and I can't help but let the weight of the moment settle over me.

She's here. With me.