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H ey, back up, back up. That was not quite the plan. I was definitely not supposed to get…to make out with Jakey of all pe ople.

On my stag night.

Oh, fuck off.

Back up. Breathe. The fuck?

My jeans were wet. Automatic hand-washing facilities and all that crap, and now I would have to walk back up there looking like I had somehow pissed the back of my pants. I giggled in frustration because I still couldn’t make my thoughts make sense.

Drink. Yeah. I’d had quite a bit. But I wasn’t totally drunk, and I was coherent enough to realise I had misplaced most of my clothes. Jacket. Phone in jacket. I was patting myself down out of habit looking for it, stumbling up the stairs back to the bar.

Jakey. Nowhere to be found. Jakey knew where my jacket was.

Jakey.

Fuck.

Jake Sawhurst. The guy who had rescued me from what university could have become. He’d been there for me, through thick and thin. Well, we’d had the occasional falling out. I didn’t see him as much these days, but he was still Jake. Dark, tall and scruffy, he always wore the same style of shirt—a little too big, like he tried to wear scrubs in real life too. Everything had to be loose or he’d get all antsy. Even his jeans were always a little too big. He wore bad belts, but great shoes, and had the deepest dimples in the universe, even deeper than mine.

Twinsie-dimples . Always made me smile.

Like I was grinning right now, spinning around in a circle trying to figure out which way to go.

And here was security, some bloke all in black telling me to find my clothes.

Fair enough. I was clearly more than a little bit drunk but also sobering up fast, the cascade of the evening hitting me from every angle. The dancing. The drinking. The look on Jake’s face. A mix between amusement and that thing he did with his eyes, almost an eye roll, so familiar after all these years. Then those new things. A different Jake full of heartbreak and anger, always staring at me from somewhere in my peripheral vision.

He’d kissed me.

What the hell, Jakey?

That had been a little bit gay, to be honest. Mates didn’t do that. Now I was giggling again, along with the bartender handing me my T-shirt and my jacket .

Mates. I had no idea where any of them were, but I gratefully slipped into my damp T-shirt, patted around my jacket for my…

Phone. There. FaceID. Straight into the familiar screen as I slapped the device against my arm. Ping. Yeah. I knew. I needed to eat, and I needed to take my meds, and I needed to get a bloody grip before I passed out. I was unstable, and I shouldn’t drink.

Jakey. I needed bloody Jakey, and now he was nowhere to be found.

Mates. Where were the people who were supposed to look after me?

I was supposed to look after myself, being an adult and grown up and all that. I just…preferred to have people around me. I needed people.

I’d been diagnosed with diabetes as a kid. This was my life, and I knew better. I was usually better. The implant on my arm communicated with my phone. The insulin pump on my hip did too, shooting lifesaving shit straight into my veins. My blood sugars, insulin and meds were a constant feature in my life, like imaginary friends who were constantly talking behind my back. Only problem was, they were not nice friends. They messed with me and constantly tried to trip me up, schemed behind my back like the worst of gossip mongers. Oh, Bash hasn’t eaten again. Let’s give him a good slap around the face for that little mishap.

I was diabetic. I was not always good at looking after that part of my life, and I didn’t need this security guy, who was now rudely marching me towards the lift while I was trying to explain to him I was diabetic and needed food and should probably sit down right here and could he get me a chocolate bar of some sort? Some orange juice? It was exhausting at times, all this diabetic stuff, and I tried to educate the poor guy on the way that I had to consciously think about every single thing I ate, calculate for it, and put off leaving the house if my sugar levels were trending low. Always had to have some sort of snack or emergency glucose with me or a plan to buy something if my levels crashed while I was out and about. Today, I hadn’t because Jake had. And now I didn’t have Jake, so could the guy chill? Just a bit? The security guard looked less than impressed with my ranting as he shoved me into the lift .

I had my key in my hand. I had no idea where it had come from. But yes. Key. Tap. Press the right floor. I knew that much.

I needed Jakey. Room. He’d be in the room.

Jake?

I whimpered as the lift doors shut in my face. Breathe. For heaven’s sake, I was an adult. I had carefully dealt with my insulin this morning, eaten on time. Had my lunch. Been spoon-fed snacks like a toddler. I didn’t remember dinner, but I was sure I’d eaten at some point, though I had no idea what time it was, and I was leaning against the lift door that rather rudely opened, leaving me to stumble out into the corridor. Room. Let’s go.

I was cold, shivery in my wet jeans and damp top, and I needed to eat. I had stuff in the room. Fuck.

My legs were moving, my head up. Fear was a sobering thing, and I had been here before, when I was starting to feel dizzy, and the chills were now causing me to sweat. I was too hot. Too cold. Too…much.

Room. Key. In. Jake.

“You left me!” I managed to say, as he caught me mid-air. “Bastard.” I was never usually this bad. I usually did things better. I wasn’t that drunk. I was confused. Irritable. Annoyingly dizzy.

“Food,” I barked as he shoved me onto the bed and ripped my phone out of my grip then scanned the implant in my arm.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. And yes.

I knew what was coming. A stern scolding from Jake, the man who never made any mistakes. The idiot who was right here tutting as he fumbled around in the room, headed for the mini fridge. Grapes? What the fuck?

“Did you not get food? Like proper food?” I tried stand up. Bad idea. My head was spinning as my arse bounced back onto the bed.

Bastien. Get a grip.

It wasn’t easy to get my body under control, to get my brain to slow down so I could actually think. I needed to be clear and calm, not have my heart racing like this. Fuck. Fuck.

I fought the carton of orange juice he was trying to get me to drink. A straw? I wasn’t a fucking toddler. I said that out loud as well, while he held on to me, my arm straining behind my back as he jabbed the straw back into my mouth, his face too close to mine.

“Drink,” he demanded.

“I like when you go all Daddy on me.” It was a joke—a bad one, but my mouth wasn’t with the programme—and I swore at him again.

“There. Now open your mouth!”

I didn’t even know how to do that.

To anyone else, we would have sounded like a bad porno, but in real life, this was what happened when I fucked up. Hypoglycaemia was another old friend. She usually hung out with Aggression. High heart rate. Irritable AF. Dangerously low blood sugar. Next, she would be followed by Unconsciousness and Ambulance and the threatened arrival of Coma. I didn’t fancy playing with any of them tonight.

I chewed whatever it was in my mouth. Snarled. Swore some more.

“Eat.” Something else was shoved in my mouth. That straw was back, spurting sweet juice against my tongue.

It wasn’t sensual or fun. Eating was supposed to be a delightful experience. Now? Fuck off, whatever it was. A cereal bar, dry and disgusting. I wanted a burger, fries, ketchup, followed by something sickly sweet and no doubt forbidden. But Dr Jake wouldn’t let me eat junk food, even when I begged for it. Instead, he made me live off stuff like this. I tried to chew. Swallowed. Spat out some crumbs over my jeans.

I was a mess.

A total mess.

“Sorry,” came out of my mouth. I didn’t know why. But now my phone was ringing, and that red-hot rage was back in my stomach…only to be instantly calmed as Jake grabbed my phone and spoke quietly into the receiver leaving me to sit on the bed and stew.

I was feeling a little better now. Calmer. Clearer. Actually able to think coherent thoughts. Puzzle things back together. Slightly.

Jake had kissed me. Ugh. I didn’t want to deal with that. Could we go back and erase that part, please? Possibly? No? Now he was pacing the floor, talking to whoever was on the phone, quietly without looking at me, and I still couldn’t focus enough to make sense of his words. It was about me. I knew it was about me .

This was me. Very much me. I stood up and dropped my disgusting jeans, slid past his back while it was turned and slipped into the bathroom, where I removed my insulin tubing and pump with shaky hands and put them on the edge of the sink. They promptly slid off and dropped somewhere on the floor. Damn it. I’d have to dig some new tubing out and change the infusion site as well. Later. Much later. I got in the shower, as mad as fuck when Jake stomped in behind me.

Not into the shower, thank fuck for that. Just into the bathroom.

And I shot him an evil grin as I dropped my underwear and pulled the screen shut.

Yeah. I was a dick. But I was also in charge here.

My life.

My body.

And Jakey could go to hell for all I cared.

“Can we talk about this?” he asked from the other side of the steamed-up shower screen.

“Fuck you,” I snapped. So, I wasn’t quite back to normal then, but the shower was helpful, the jets sending prickles off all over my skin as the water danced around me. My head was a little cloudy still, but at least I was standing up, kind of, clinging to the soap-thing-dispenser for dear life.

“We need to talk about this, otherwise things will get even more fucked up,” he said. So sensible. So mindful. Fucking demure. Jakey.

“I was just having a bit of fun.” Yeah. Because that was what had happened, wasn’t it? “A stag night is supposed to be fun. Like, you do stupid shit. Mess around and joke about it.”

“What just happened was stupid shit?” he said.

“Yup. Agree with that.”

“But this is me, and I’m no fucking joke. Saying that is fucking cruel, Bastien.”

He was right. I had no problem with Jake being who he was. I never had, because of course I knew. Jakey was Jakey, and we never talked about intimate stuff like that. It just wasn’t who we were. Still, I couldn’t make sense of anything right now. Nor was I managing to get my brain to compute that my phone was ringing out there somewhere or that Jakey was now sitting on the toilet seat with his head in his hands .

All that messy hair. Big hands. That broad back. Shirt still on. Breaths. Deep ones, and I, in my weird messy state, managed to fall over, flat on my face, sliding around in a bathtub like the drunk twat I apparently still was. I would be bruised all over tomorrow, but there we were. Arms and legs seemingly everywhere, slippery white glossy shit under my knees. The towel rail to the rescue, I found my footing. One leg up, foot on floor…and Jake was suddenly gone as I covered myself up in a cloud of white fluffy warmth.

I sometimes said stuff I didn’t mean. I sometimes blurted out idiotic things that hurt people. Juliet had told me enough times. Engage that brain of yours, babe.

I tried to focus on my reflection in the steamed-up mirror. Bloody pen marks on my arm. Numbers. Sensor still in place. Dick still there. All good. Towel over my shoulders, I grabbed my moisturiser and slathered my face in the stuff that kept me looking my best, hissing when I poked the tender skin under my eye. A bruise. I looked awful and suddenly I wanted to cry. What did it matter if I looked youthful and still had all my hair? Did it make me happy? Did I make anyone else happy?

I wanted to disappear. Just hide under the bloody hotel duvet and sleep all this off. Forget that there was a past and now a future. I wasn’t sure I wanted either of those.

To be truthful, I had no idea what I was doing, and it clearly showed.