My eyes follow Blake as he gets to his feet. He blows out the rest of the smoke in his mouth, moving to the opposite end of the table. After picking up the ball, his gaze flits over. "Ready, Matthews?"

I hesitate. Blake's advantage is that even if he downs more beer than me, his threshold is significantly higher. All it would take to knock me off my game is another cup or two. Still, if there is one thing I'm not, it's a quitter.

"I'm ready," I say, my voice even. "Hey–" my eyes take on this daring look, "–I'll even let you go first."

His lips curl. He brings back his lean, tattooed arm and pauses. With a twist of his wrist, the ball bounces off the side of my cup before dropping straight in. Kieran slaps Blake's back excitedly. I try not to wince as I down the cup of beer.

The bitter taste burns on its way down. I ignore the slight rush to my head and hone in on the cup near Blake's forearm. Steadying my hand, I take a second or two to breathe before aiming. The room cheers again.

At this point, it seems everyone is invested in this game, and people either crowd the table or watch from the sofa. I take a breath, watching how Blake suppresses a smile as he downs the contents of his cup. We go on like this for a few more minutes, neither of us able to get the upper hand. The more I drink, the harder the room spins out of focus.

It gets to the last two cups. Blake misses his next shot, which puts me in the running. Suppressing my nausea, I focus on the last red cup, but it's like I'm seeing double. Blake stares back from across the table, and I don't know if it's the beer's effect or if I'm insane, but he's never looked so good.

"Come on, Rose!" someone shouts behind him. "Take him out!"

"Hey," Blake says, turning around, "whose side are you on?"

I take my shot while he's distracted and land it. He turns back around as the ball reemerges through the beer's foam and pauses.

Liv screams like I've just won the Olympics and not a game of beer pong. Someone behind me lifts me up, holding me in the air, and the slurred, drunk chants of Rose Matthews begins as I'm carried around the room.

"All hail the queen of beer pong!" Freddie shouts, and I'm laughing. I'm laughing so hard that my belly hurts, and I'm afraid the beer I've downed will reappear. When I'm finally put down, Blake walks around the table and holds out his hand for me to shake. I take it, surprised by how warm and solid it feels. So surprised, I don't let go.

"Come on," Liv says, and she grabs my hand before leading me over to the sofa. Somehow, I end up squashed between her and Blake. Our arms press together as he leans forward, the air thick and heavy with weed. My heart races as someone lights the end of a joint and passes it around. Any second now, it's going to land on me.

"Who knew Rose Matthews was the beer pong connoisseur?" Kenny says, and everybody laughs. I laugh, too, for once feeling like I'm part of a group instead of standing on the sidelines.

"Any other hidden talents, Rose?" Freddie asks.

I give him a devilish look. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He laughs and takes a hit of the joint before passing it over. I reach out and take it, not because I have any intention of smoking, but because I barely have time to think. I stare at the thing, holding it like I'm holding a bomb about to go off. With the others distracted, I lean into Blake and drop my voice.

"Blake, I don't–" I swallow the words, suddenly feeling as boring as Chase said I was, but even if Blake makes fun of me for this, it's a line I won't cross, "–I don't want to."

Blake's already deep voice drops lower. "You don't have to."

My shoulders drop as he pulls it from my hands and puts it to his mouth. He watches me watching, and something dangerous passes between us. We're sitting so close that I notice the paper-thin scar near his jaw for the first time. Close enough that the hairs on his arm tickle mine. He blows the smoke out the corner of his mouth, still focused on me. It's hard to determine whether it's the beer making me dizzy or the way he is watching me. All I know is that the air is electric, his gaze like a current that charges my skin; I couldn't look away if I wanted to.

"Here, Rose," Kenny says as he sinks into the armchair, "have a beer." He hands me a cold one, almost in what feels like a peace offering.

I reach out to take it, but Blake's arm catches mine. "Easy, tiger," he says.

"I'm fine," I say, but now the room isn't just spinning; it's turned on its axis.

"You're slurring," Blake says.

"I'm not. I'm just trying a new way of talking."

He smirks as I get to my feet, but a wave of dizziness sends me back into his arms. They wrap around me, warm and robust as he stands us upright.

"All right," he says, "no more beer for you." Moving his hands to my waist, he guides me up the basement steps and into the main part of the house. It's dark up here, completely still, like we're the only ones left in the world.

My eyes widen. Reality sets in. "What time is it? I need to get home."

"It's not that late," Blake says, "but you're not going home like this." He leads me up another set of stairs as I stumble against his waist. His grip tightens, keeping me steady. "You can sleep it off in my room and drive home in the morning."

Sleep here. In Blake's house. In his room. "Blake, I don't–"

"Hey," he says, "if you want to turn up to your house drunk, be my guest. I'll call you an uber."

He's got me, and he knows it. "Fine, but I need to message my parents. I need to tell them I'm staying at a friend's house before they go nuclear on me." At least, I think that's what I say, but Blake stares at me like I'm talking in a different language. I pull out my phone and text my mom to say I'm staying at Angela's. Blake peers over my shoulder, sighs, and grabs my phone to rewrite my message.

"There," he says, handing it back, "panic over."

I slip it into my pocket, relieved. Holding me up, Blake guides me to his bedroom and over to the bed. As I faceplant the pillow, I lift my head to take in the still spinning room. From what I can see, it's not what I'd expected. The walls are white, and the room is mostly empty except for a double bed, closet, and desk. There is no clutter anywhere, no clothes lying around or trinkets or photos – it looks like a guest room.

"This is your room?" I say. "But it's so un-you."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Un-me?"

"Yeah. It's not disorganized."

His mouth twitches. He finds me amusing; I know it. "Glad I passed the inspection, commander."

"It's so...boring," I say. "I figured the walls would be covered in posters and guitars and maybe the hearts of the animals you torture."

He can't help it; he smiles. "Sorry to burst your bubble, princess. No tortured animals here."

"Good, because if you ever tortured animals, I'd have to torture you."

"You do that anyway." He fluffs the pillow behind my head and tucks me in.

Something in my chest pulsates. "Why are you being nice to me?" It's confusing to me – more than confusing. Blake doesn't feel like Blake right now, and I don't feel like me.

"I'm not," he says.

"You are."

"If this is your idea of nice, your standards are on the floor."

"I already knew that." I pause, and then, "I think I had one beer too many."

"You think?"

"Will you be mad if I throw up?"

"Only if you miss the trash can." He pulls the can from under the desk and puts it by the bed. There's a moment where he doesn't speak, where he stares down at me with his eyebrows slightly furrowed and a look I can't read. For a moment, a second, I wish he didn't hate me.

"I won at beer pong," I say, and I can't help feeling all proud, "your friends have to vote for me now."

"I'd have made them vote for you either way."

This surprises me. I can't determine if he says it because helping me means payday for him or maybe it's something else. "Are you proud of me?"

His expression is careful, like he's trying to work out what I'm doing. "Never been prouder."

"On Monday, we need to work on my speech," I say. "The candidates have to make a big speech, and it'll decide whether or not I make it to the next stage, so it needs to be good."

He laughs, and it's a low, even sound that warms up the coldness of his room. "All right, we'll work on it." He gets to his feet, about to walk out when I grab his arm and force him to turn back around. "What's wrong?" he asks.

As my fingers press against his skin, a dangerous thought occurs. I suddenly have this urge to lean closer, to see how his lips would taste. With a hot flush of guilt, I shove it back down. "What if someone comes in?"

"They won't," he says, "I'll make sure of it."

I settle back into the covers, suddenly sleepy. With a final look, he walks back over to the door again. I wait for him to close it behind him before exhaling. Something has gone seriously wrong, because as I lie here, staring at the boring white shell of Blake's bedroom, I imagine us doing things I could never, ever admit to out loud.

Things I will take to my grave.

I must fall asleep, because I wake up at three in the morning to stillness. My throat feels dry, coarse like sandpaper, but Blake has left a glass of water for me on the bedside table. I take a sip and turn on the lamp.

His bedroom is clearer now that I'm not so drunk. Still cold and impersonal, but I notice the desk has a few pieces of paper scattered on the surface. I tiptoe over and take in the several burner phones piled in the corner. Beside them is a handwritten checklist of all of the bills that need paying.

If he's paying the bills, it makes sense that he needs money. Only I can't figure out why, whether his brother is really on vacation or if he's not coming back. The state of the house suggests it's the latter, but I don't want to believe Blake is living in this house alone. It's too depressing.

I finish off my water and tiptoe downstairs to the basement. The place is a mess, and Blake is fast asleep on the sofa. Now wide awake, I quietly clear up the plastic cups and leftover chips until the place is – mostly – spotless. Vacuuming will have to wait until morning.

I'm about to head back upstairs when I pause. It's almost pitch black, but a stream of moonlight pours in through the window and lights up his face. He looks peaceful like this, his face more boyish and relaxed than I'm used to. I walk over, pulling down the blanket half-draped across the sofa until it covers him entirely.

As I turn and head upstairs, something inside of me feels like it's on the verge of bursting. I was able to be someone else tonight, someone I think I could possibly like: she wasn't boring or preppy, not perfect the way my family is used to, but a part of me doesn't care. Being around Blake makes me feel like I don't have to be.

I don't want to be.

❤️🇬🇧