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But I just. Couldn’t.

“How are you feeling?” I whispered.

“My head hurts.”

“Have some water.”

He propped himself up, unsteady, and took the glass from me. His fingers brushed against mine. I hadn’t done it on purpose, and I felt ashamed of the shiver that ran across my shoulders.

“Did Finn tell you about Winona?” he asked, his words thick and fuzzy.

“Yeah. That’s why he called me. Sorry you’re stuck with me instead.”

Brougham hooked his gaze back onto me, earnest. “I’m not.”

Yes, well, I was through criticizing people’s girlfriends, so I ignored him. “It’s just Ainsley and me here tonight,” I said while he took small, slow sips. “There’s a towel next to your clothes here. You can take a shower whenever you like. We sleep upstairs so it won’t wake us. There should be a new toothbrush in the cabinet, too. Feel free to take it.”

He blinked, trying to digest the information. I had to remind myself just because he was conscious now didn’t mean he was sober.

Another in a myriad of good reasons to keep my distance.

As carefully as he could, he placed the glass back down on the carpet and managed not to spill it. The act of leaning over the side of the sofa brought his face close to mine, and I wriggled backward quickly, my breath catching. I had to move, because I wanted to stay put so badly. To let our lips meet.

He looked up and took me in as I moved back, eyes unfocused but still sharp enough to notice. He rested his head back down, looking at me without saying a word.

That wasn’t nothing.

This wasn’t nothing.

So, I got to my feet, swallowing. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Will you be okay down here?”

He hardened his face. “Yeah,” he said in a voice that was too perfectly upbeat to be quite right.

“Okay. Good night.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, then, finally, nodded. “’Night.”

Poor Brougham spent the better half of the next morning throwing up in the bathroom.

Luckily for Ainsley and me, he was perfectly capable of using a toilet by this point, so there was no bucket to deal with, but it was still pretty awful to hear. After breakfast, Ainsley made one pointed comment about the fact that she couldn’t film anything with that kind of background music. I suggested she purposely create something hideous and lean into the ambience. She didn’t find the idea quite as funny as I did, but she did soften when Brougham zombie-walked back to the sofa to curl up into a ball wearing nothing more than socks, underwear, and Sparkly Sweater.

“I can run these through the washer and dryer,” I suggested, gesturing to his clothes. “You probably don’t wanna put them back on as is.”

“I can’t ask you to wash my shit,” Brougham moaned, burying his face head-down into the cushion. “It’s humiliating.”

“Yeah, well, you might need to rise above it.”

“I’m sorry.” He peeked over the cushion at me, eyes full of contrition.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather you be here than at your house.”

He cringed, and nodded, and I headed off to fix up his clothing. Finn had offered his own place as a refuge for Brougham as soon as Brougham was well enough to get there. But Brougham hadn’t yet made it a full twenty minutes without vomiting violently, so that option was off the table for now.

Speaking of, from the sound of things he was back in the bathroom. I waited in the living room for him, but when he hadn’t returned after a particularly long time, I went to check on him. Rapping on the door, I asked if everything was okay.

“Yeah.” His voice was small. “You can come in if you want.”

He was on his knees in front of the toilet, resting on our fluffy gray mat, his shoulder flung over the seat and his head resting sideways on it. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, and the color had drained from his face. He didn’t open his eyes as I came in. “I don’t even have anything left in my stomach,” he panted. “I’m just throwing up air.”