Page 63 of Full Split

“Wyatt,” I murmur out of the corner of my mouth. “Personal space.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re high.”

He hums again, clearly pleased with himself. His hand slides down a little, settling on my thigh. Not my knee. Not my arm. My actual thigh. His big hand spreads out and kneads the inside of my thigh like he’s about to move higher, completely unconcerned that we’re surrounded by people.

I can feel Weston’s eyes drilling into us.

“I love you,” Wyatt sighs softly, his lips brushing my hair.

And just like that, I stop breathing.

So does Weston.

I don’t dare look at him. I focus on Wyatt, who’s blissed out and oblivious, nuzzling against me like I’m the most comfortable pillow he’s ever found.

Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I pry his hand off me gently and place his hand in his own lap.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” I say, needing to extricate myself from the situation. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to not know what he might say in my absence.

“M’kay.” He smiles at me like I just promised him the world.

I haul myself up from the seat, heart hammering. When I sneak a glance at Weston, he’s not staring at me anymore. He’s looking at his dad. His expression is flat and unreadable.

When I get back with the water, Wyatt takes it gratefully and guzzles it down. Water drips down the sides of his chin as he grins up at me, loose and unguarded.

“You’re so beautiful.”

I almost drop the cup.

Weston sees and hears that one, too. My stomach churns, and I wonder if maybe I should take one of those pills and let fate take the wheel.

By the time we land in Belgium, Wyatt has thankfully calmed down. He’s much less affectionate, but he’s severely nauseous. This is why he hates the meds, they give him what is effectively a wicked hangover.

He’s silent on the lift to the hotel. Weston helps him check in because the lights are hurting Wyatt’s eyes and he’s so groggy he can barely answer his own name, much less any details about the booking.

I push the luggage trolley to our room, while Weston helps his dad into the room next door. When he comes back, he seems out of sorts.

“There’s a massive soaking tub,” I tell him.

There’s a flicker of interest when he peeks into the huge bathroom. He turns to look at me, like he wants to say something, and I tense. But if he was going to, he changes his mind.

“I’m going to take a bath then, I guess,” he grunts, and shuts the door behind him. He almost never shuts it all the way, leaving it open just enough to let me know I can come in and piss or talk to him if I need to.

Sighing, I lift Wyatt’s bags off the trolley and take them next door. He’s in the large king-sized bed, face-down.

“You breathing?” I ask softly.

He turns his face to the side, but keeps his eyes shut tight. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. “I just need water. And sleep. And for the world to stop spinning.”

I grab him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and sit next to him on the bed while he tips it into his mouth. Some gets on the pillow, but he just flips it over and lays his head back down. I sit next to him and push the damp hair back from his forehead. Poor thing looks miserable.

“Need anything else?”

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me down. I go willingly, laying on my side facing him, his head pressed against my chest. My fingers comb through his hair soothingly.

“I screwed things up, didn’t I?”