Every night, I dream of Oliver Godfrey. He's always there, always smiling at me, always kissing me, always staring at me with bright brown eyes and whispering love into my ears. But they're just dreams; I wake up cold and alone as Oliver sleeps on the other side of the bus looking perfect and perfect and perfect.

The sun begins to set over Los Angeles, and in this dream that's not a dream but total fucking reality, Oliver has his hands under my shirt.

Under my shirt. Under my shirt.

His fingers run along my ribcage, drawing intricate patterns that make me shudder. I can't believe there was a time before Oliver's hands were on my bare skin, that wasn't just a playful shove to the shoulder or ruffle of the hair, or even grabbing my thigh. But now, he's doing it because he wants to turn me on, he wants me to feel the way I've felt for so long already.

His lips move against mine, another thing from my dreams, ripped out for all of Hollywood to see. I can only compare them to Parker Watts' lips but at the same time, I really can't. Parker's lips were so unexpected and sloppy and drunk and careless. These are the lips I've been yearning for since I were an eighteen year old lad, sat in a hall, notebook of original songs bobbing on my lap.

I drink him in like I've died of dehydration over and over again. I run my fingers through his hair, wrap my arms around his neck, draw him closer. I want to let him know in every way possible that this is what I want; that I want nothing but this. I'll be completely utterly consumed by him, if he'll have me.

"Scottie," Oliver mumbles in between kisses; the same voice when he wakes up, the one that can make me stand to attention. I gulp. He puts his hands on either side of my face, and pulls away. I follow his lips, like there might be more for me if I just keep trying, but instead, he just stares at me, the skin around his lips pink from all the sucking and tugging.

I want to touch him again, I need to. Now that I've tasted what he can do to me, I need more.

"We should go." My ears ring. "Scottie?"

He just...stops.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"I mean, right...yeah." I stand, rub my hands on my thighs, give a little stretch like I've just woken from a fucking kip and not the best seven and a half minutes of my life. "We should go. That's...that's the best idea I've ever heard, yeah."

Oliver just nods, and stands too, collecting himself. And then, he turns and starts following the path back down to the main road.

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?

I stare in disbelief as Oliver goes from 10 to a solid fucking 1 at the drop of a hat. Like...did that just happen?

.....

The air is cold against my sweating skin as we return to the hotel through the back way as usual. My feet slide against the concrete in defiance; I fucking hate the hotel, I hate everything about it. It reminds me of Candice crying on the step, of Oliver punching Luke, of Demitri, every other night, trashing his room and shouting and playing his music loud.

Oliver hasn't spoken to me until we reach our rooms at either end of the hall. Candice doesn't wait for him in the doorway with enticing long legs and painted lips. Weirdly, I know she waits for me. We Skype, text, have a chat on Facebook with just the two of us. I used to hate having her around, and now she's not here, I miss her.

But the anger growing inside of me fucking consumes me, as Oliver waves and mumbles a goodnight before fumbling for his key card.

"No."

He turns around. "What?"

"I said no. We're not leaving it like that, no fucking way, mate." I step closer to him. "You kissed me, Oliver. Why would you do that and then just ignore it?"

He looks dumbfounded that I'd bring it up, like it doesn't just happen about an hour ago.

"I don't know, Scott." The 'Scott' is a slap in the face. I'm not Scott to him, I'm Scottie, I always have been. "I just...I don't want to be alone. But I can feel it."

I've never been someone to go after what they want. I gladly sit in the shadows and watch everyone strive for what they want, and I let them. My desires come last, and as he stares down at me longingly, the stare I've seen so many times but always interpreted it differently I finally realise that it's time, it's time to get what I want.

I move my hand into his jeans pocket, not breaking eye contact, and pull out his key card. I unlock his door.

"Invite me in, then."

.....

My eyes pulse behind my eyelids.

I wake up in my own bed, of my own volition. Oliver invited me into his room last night, because I'd asked him to, and I lick at my lips, still sore from the kissing and the sucking and the biting.

The whole thing has kept me awake for hours.

I can remember everything, like it's been imprinted in my mind forever. We didn't fuck, and I sort of like it that way; I can't go from best friends to fucking secretly in a hotel room. Despite wanting to touch me and kiss me and for me to sleep in his bed, I could still feel the tension in his body, the way he sometimes shuddered under my fingers like I was made of ice.

I like to think of myself as a nice person to be around, I like to think of myself as ok looking, but I don't expect him to go "Well shit, I'm gay." after one snog from yours truly.

"Scottie! Scottie, for feck sake, answer your phone!" Demi's voice comes from behind the locked door, banging and banging until it rattles inside my brain. Fuck, I didn't even see my phone vibrating on the bedside table next to me.

I've got messages from Candice and Demitri and even Mitch. I see one from Candice that just says TURN ON YOUR NOTIFICATIONS. It sounds like a daft thing to do and it is, because when I do, they move at lightning speed. I can't even fucking read them.

I'm able to catch one mid whizz, it spinning colourfully across the screen.

It's a picture of me at that fucking Dawn Senate party, pressed against a magnolia wall, locking lips with Parker Watts.

The tweet says Do you think he popped Scott Connors' cherry?