Ugh.

Hangovers are the worst.

I can say that because I haven’t had many, and this one… this one’s a doozy — probably the worst I’ve had since ever. It’s like the weight from a wing press at the gym is sitting on my head and pushing me deeper and deeper into a deep, dark pit of… bleh.

Pressure. Tightening, sweltering, unrelenting pressure. What’s worse is that it’s the throbbing kind of hangover; the one that can’t even take the beat of my heart without chiming its bells. It’s exhausting, and I’ve only just woken up.

Maybe I’ve come down with something. I really hope I haven’t, because there’s a performance on soon, and I’m supposed to be in it. I think. Or is that training? Or was that last week?

Ugh.

Hangovers are the literal worst.

My lips part. I take a breath to sigh and feel the ache of cool air on a dry throat. Either my mouth’s been hanging open for the majority of the night, or I got a little too carried away while singing karaoke. Which has actually happened before. On my eighteenth, I chose this one song that was basically nothing but a mare screaming her heart out to a commentary about the futility of fearing death. It was close to a fortnight before my voice returned to normal.

Thankfully, this feels nothing like that — more likely the former, then.

I gulp down what little saliva I have and try to lift my head, only for the pressure to wrap around my skull and force me back into the soft, welcoming embrace of a pillow. Figures it’d be that kind of hangover too. Sweet Celestia, I must’ve had a lot. Either that or I really am sick, and I am not in the mood for that. Not that I ever would be, with snot and mucus and coughing fits and vertigo… No amount of leave would ever make facing those beasties worth it. Vertigo especially. To most pegasi, that’s as foreign as aquaphobia is to a fish.

As with most things, this’ll need time to work itself out. Time I might not have. If I’m having trouble remembering what happened last night, I’ve probably forgotten today’s commitments too. So, I need a cure, and the simplest one I can think of is the dreaded cold shower.

With another sigh, I slide my forelegs up, and slowly, grudgingly, painfully prop myself up on them, then wait for the world to stop shaking, and then finally open my eyes.

Everything’s a blur. Whether that’s the alcohol or the sleep or the eye boogers, I don’t know, and I don’t care. Blinking a few times doesn’t make it any better, so I bring a hoof up and rub deep and hard, a massive yawn escaping me.

Why? Why have I done this to myself? I thought I was past the parties and the booze and the late-night festivities — haven’t really passed out like this since I became a Wonderbolt, and even longer since I attended a bash that didn’t completely stink. The last one I remember going to was… two months ago, I think, at Soarin’s place, where he stumbled while playing beer pong and broke half a cabinet of china. That was a riot. Kind of looked like the aftermath of one too.

Sucked that we had to clean it up, though.

After giving my eyes a thorough cleaning, I blink again and find my vision clear, as expected. What I don’t expect, however, is to find myself staring at unfamiliar surroundings. Or at least, unfamiliar in the sense that it’s literally anywhere besides my room. This is a hotel; specifically, Seaford’s Riviera. I know because I stayed in a room like this one on my sixth tour through Fillydelphia. And boy, that was a show to be a part of.

The walls are a pale blue-grey, with the entire right side replaced by a giant window, the dull white light of a morning sun filtering through the curtains. The carpeted floor is short, spongey and the colour of cream. The bedsheets are cobalt, ruffled, and I’m lying on top of them, and I look as much a mess as they do. Through the open doorway in front of me and across the hall is the bathroom. That shower can’t come soon enough.

Another yawn sneaks up on me and I shudder from it, covering my mouth, stretching my back and wings as much as I can, working out the kinks before I move for real.

And then I freeze.

I felt something.

Something solid.

Something buried beneath the blanket on the left.

A cold, giant, heavy pit opens up inside me as I slowly press my feathertip deeper into the sheets, and grows even colder, bigger and heavier the more resistance I find.

Oh crap.

Eyes wide, ears tense, wings and legs stiff and a chilling, spidery sensation dancing across my shoulders and down my spine, all the way to my croup, I stare at the heap in shock.

Did I…?

No, I hadn’t actually… I mean… Right? That’s ludicrous — ridiculous — I was just staying the night. In… their bed. With them. When I know there’s a perfectly serviceable couch in the living room just down the hall, no more than a few seconds’ march away. But really, I couldn’t have, because… because…

My eyes drift southward.

All over my body, my hair, fur and feathers are matted, tangled and twisted, but nowhere more so than around my mouth, chest, belly and…

Oh shit.

…Between my hindlegs.

Worse yet, now that I pay attention… it feels sticky. Like dried paste. The sheets below are stained with damp, and the air smells off. And my inner thighs and insides… ache with a pain I’ve not felt since before I was a reservist. Doctor appointments and my hoof notwithstanding, that area hasn’t seen action in years. More than a decade, in fact. And now that clean streak’s been broken by, what, a few too many shots of whiskey and some random guy I don’t even…

I seize up again, and the sinking, sickening feeling in my barrel grows, like I’m being tied down to the bottom of the ocean by my stomach. Tight, constricted, slow in motion, at risk of drowning in alien waters.

But it couldn’t be. I mean, there’s just no way, right?

He wouldn’t…

I wouldn’t…

And yet there’s every possibility.

My eyes drift back to the blanket as I’m overcome with an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s a rather unassuming shape, no bigger or smaller than the average pony — not that there’s ever been a huge amount of variation — so it really could be anypony, even a non-pony.

…Oh jeez, that’s just made it worse.

But speculation tends to do that. There’s only one way to find out who this is, and as much as I wish it were any different, I know it has to be done. So, I fold my wings, roll onto my hip, and like a little schoolgirl scared of her own shadow, hesitantly, reluctantly, fearfully reach out a hoof for the top of the blanket.

If he’s a stranger, my pride is the only thing hurt, and maybe his too, but if he’s him…

I gently push the covers out of the way.

…

…

…

…

…

No.

Merciful Sisters, no.

After a long moment of horrified staring, I finally take a deep, gasping breath and recoil, scurrying back to the edge of the bed and almost falling off.

This… is not what I wanted. Not in a million years. Not this soon. It’s only been, what, a bit more than a month since I said anything about the remote possibility that I maybe kinda-sorta like him slightly more than the average friend, and we’ve already jumped from that to… to…

…I think I’m going to be sick.

I scramble over to the foot of the bed and hop down, staggering and stumbling toward the exit, almost slamming face first into the doorframe when something snags my hoof. No time to check what it is, though, and I sloppily canter into the bathroom and shut and lock the door behind me. The fright of a near-death experience seems quell my stomach for the time being, but then I look down and see I’ve brought his underwear with me, and the bile bubbles up again.

I dash for the toilet, flip open the seat, hooves on the rim, and lurch once, twice, and at last a revolting, satisfying thrice. Like a wet cough that stings my nose.

When the choking and the gagging and the vomiting and the spluttering dies down — quite easily a minute or three later — I simply lay my head on my hoof at the edge of the bowl and pant, breathing in that tainted, acrid air. I feel even worse for it, but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it.

I was wrong. Hangovers aren’t the worst. This is.

How could it happen? Why did it happen? Why him, of all ponies? Who started it? Whose fault is it? Mine? His? Ours? We agreed that if anything were to happen between us at all, we’d take it slow — a pace we’re both comfortable with. Because this thing we have… had… whatever it’s called… is completely new territory for the two of us, and for completely different reasons.

Well, not entirely, but that’s beside the point; this should never have happened this soon, if ever. I’m not… He’s not… We aren’t ready for it. And if he is, then props to him for being the best damn actor I’ve ever seen, quickly followed by the most brutal beating he’ll have ever received.

Twenty years. Close to twenty years and this is how it ends? This is how I ‘loosen up’? I make one good friend — the first in ages — and the second I let a little booze get to my head, I wake up absolutely drenched from head to hoof in dried sweat and spunk. Oh yeah, that definitely says something about me alright. Worst part is, I can’t even remember if it was any good.

…I feel dirty.

Come to think of it, my conscience has a point: I’m filthy. That shower may not be the cure to my hangover anymore, since I’m way past that point, but I can’t go walking out of here like this.

I reach up to pull the lever and away the putrid chunks are flushed. The smell and the taste linger and a few drops splash across my cheek, but I don’t care; I’m too tired to, and I’ll wash it all out soon enough. If only I can find the strength and the will to do so.

My thighs and cooch begin to ache again from sitting on my haunches; the adrenaline rush must’ve pushed them to the back of my mind. That feeling right there is super gross. That probably makes me sound childish, but it’s true. To know that something went in there… and feel the effects of it going in and out and…

Oh my stars, he didn’t actually… Not inside, right? I mean… that’s…

I lurch again and spew even more of my guts into the bowl — less violent than before, but still unpleasant. That was a horrible thought, and I don’t spare one more second on that line of thinking as I slip from the toilet to the light switch, and then bumble into the shower. My legs are weak and my hooves tremble with every step.

When I’m inside, I slide the door closed, point the nozzle away from me and twist the taps. Cold water flows, as baths often start, and I take the opportunity to soothe a parched throat.

It hurts to swallow, and as soon as I back away from the stream to take a breath and wipe my eyes clear, mortification sets in, realising how else I could’ve been singing last night.

I am not a squealer. But since I can’t remember anything, there’s always the chance, and if I did and if any other residents heard it… Oh gosh… I can hardly begin to imagine what they’d think of me. Me. A Wonderbolt. A public figure seen by hundreds of thousands of ponies and tens of thousands of fans, and that’s no boast; I’ve seen the pictures from conventions and received so, so, so many fan letters.

It’s honestly kind of creepy when you really get to think about it, which is why I don’t.

Instead, I return the showerhead to me and shut my eyes as water cascades over my neck, withers and back. It gathers in my mane and behind my ears, running trails over my brows and cheeks, dripping from my snout and chin as I stare at the floor.

The warmth is refreshing, like a liquid blanket that soaks me to the skin, and I relish it. This morning has been a nightmare and I need as much comfort as I can get, because for all I can fly and bank and twist and turn, there’s no escaping this.

The die has been cast, as he put it once. This is my Rubicon, and I didn’t even mean to cross it. Not really. Not like this.

Sweet stars above, not like this.

I sit down and stretch my wings again. There’s enough space for it, thankfully, but since the hotel was originally built and owned by a pegasus, I shouldn’t have expected any less. They’re tense, strained, as if I slept on them wrong, or if they were pressing themselves into the mattress for hours on end. And that just makes this heaviness inside me grow heavier and heavier.

But I can’t focus on that. I need to clean myself up. So, I shift my weight onto my rump, let the water fall on my underside and grab the soap. Circles and clumps in the fur become straight. Others need a little coaxing. In the region down below, though… it just gets gluey. And it sickens me.

I begin to scrub, slowly, meekly, weakly, from chest to stomach and past the teats, each motion as shameful as it is repulsive. It’s even worse when I actually touch any of… that. Soap is soap — it doesn’t get dirty — but with the water sinking into it, it’s hard to tell if I’m removing anything or just spreading it. And that is not an image I want in my head.

Why did there have to be so much of it? How much of it’s his? Merciful Sisters, how much of it’s mine? I can’t have been that pent-up. Him, I can sort of see, being the only one of his kind and everything. But still, nopony… produces this much. It just… It’s as disgusting to think about as it is to wipe away.

And then I reach it — that one orifice — and I pause. Hesitate. Dread. Let the soap go. Slowly, warily, anxiously lower my hoof towards it. Timidly tease it open. Slip the edge in the barest fraction and instantly pull away. Bring it up to my eyes and inspect it.

…Fuck…

My brows upturn and my ears go flat, my jaw quivers and my head sways from side to side, eyes watering and searching for something, anything to tell me otherwise, and finding nothing. So, it’s no surprise that the next breath I take is ragged, stuttered — more like a stifled whimper — and I let out a long, high-pitched whine that continues all the way down to the shower floor. I curl up on my side, shutting my eyes, shrinking into myself under the stream from above.

I feel wretched. Rotten, corrupt, askew, empty. Wrong. He’s… inside me now. Has been for hours, probably. No amount of soap, water or scrubbing can wash that out, or turn back the clock. And I cry because of it.

---

I don’t know what to do.

Dying’s always an option, but not a very healthy one.

I do know something, though: the position I’m in isn’t good for my spine.

Lying on my back, wings spread, forelegs wrapped around my barrel and hindlegs splayed, head propped against the wall, I watch the water fall, pool and dance in front of me. Steam rises from the tiles, fogging the glass and the ceiling. The pale yellow light of the heat lamps gives my wet coat a faint shine and bathes me in warmth. But for all the luxury that surrounds me, and how easily I’d lose myself in its comfort, I am cold and alone.

I really do feel like crap. Glancing up at the glass in front of me, I certainly look the part. My mane, normally so neat and windswept, is now drenched and stuck to my fur, clinging to my neck, drooping over my brows. My tail fares no better, directly in the path of the showerhead. My eyes are tired, as am I, and the dark patches under them seem even darker. All in all, I kind of remind myself of a wet cat, which isn’t too far from the truth, I suppose.

A wet cat that somehow made a very big, very costly mistake, and in more ways than one.

I’m not an idiot. I paid attention in biology class and sex ed. I know that different species aren’t compatible in that way. We can’t… We shouldn’t be able to…

But there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? And in a world where ponies can become trees if they sniff the wrong flower… and star-bears can become constellations if they’re hit high enough into the sky… and friendship is literally magic… who’s to say what can’t be done?

I mean, we are… were good friends, so…

I close my eyes and hug myself tighter, crossing my hindlegs and pulling them close, trying ever so desperately to shut out the prospect. Or, heavens forbid, the reality.

It can’t be. It simply can’t. This has to be some kind of dream or vision. Pretty soon, Princess Luna will tear a hole through the fabric of space and poke her head through the wall and tell me everything will be fine. None of this is real. It’s all the work of my subconscious, struggling to come to terms with a changing outlook; with how I used to not bother with romantic stuff; with how I used to put work first; with how I used to think he was just another friend.

But the seconds tick by, stretch into minutes, and Luna does not come.

I am cold.

I am alone.

And I’ve still made the biggest mistake of my entire life.

…

…

…

…

…

…Should I leave?

It’d be quite easy, really.

I could just… turn off the taps… dry myself off… find my stuff, if I brought anything… then quietly sneak… exit the suite and fly all the way back to Cloudsdale. Quick, simple, no pain to be had.

And what about him?

…He’ll… survive. He probably won’t remember much, anyway.

How do you know?

…Because… that’s how it was for me. I probably wouldn’t have figured anything out if I hadn’t tapped him by accident.

Your junk aches, you look a mess and you woke up without any clothes. How long until he puts two and two together?

Long enough.

…You’re seriously considering this?

Well, what am I supposed to do? Wake him up myself? Tell him what happened if he doesn’t remember and watch him freak out? Ruin our friendship? Our perfectly healthy, perfectly normal, perfectly non-sexual friendship, in which I’m kind of crushing on him. And yeah, it doesn’t make sense for a grown mare to ‘crush’ on somepony, but that’s all it is. Puppy love, nothing more.

You screwed your best friend and now you’re going to screw him over?

…What? No, that’s… I’d be sparing him.

From what?

…The truth.

He’s going to find out regardless. You know him; he’s not dumb. And what happens afterwards? How long can you avoid him before he starts asking questions? How long can you lie before he starts getting suspicious? What would he say when he finds out it’s you, and you said nothing? What would you say?

…I’d… figure it out.

No; you’d break his trust. Do you honestly think he’d ever want to see you again if you pulled that kind of stunt? That he wouldn’t feel used? What kind of pony are you? You’ve seen this bullshit play out a million times over; you know how it ends and you know better than that. To say nothing of the outcry if he went public with it, if and only if nopony knows already.

…But I don’t want this…

Then tell him. Stop wallowing around in your own self-pity and tell him straight to his face. That’s how you’ve always done it before and this is no different.

Yes, it is.

How?

Because… Well, we…

You banged.

…Yeah. That.

So what? Sure, it’s been a while, and it’s embarrassing as heck, and you can’t guarantee that confronting him won’t make things worse, but running away definitely will. At least with this, there’s a chance.

…But it’s him. Why’d it have to be him?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you choose. You can’t control his reaction, but you can control your own. You know what’s right. You know what you should do. You are in control.

…It’s honestly getting hard to believe that little lie I tell myself every now and then. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t do the trick. One day, it won’t, but not today. It just sucks that I have to guilt myself into doing the right thing.

It’d suck even more if you didn’t.

Either way, it sucks. It’s all one big pile of crap, and I’ve stepped in it. But now I’ve wiped my hoof on the grass, given it a thorough wash, and it’s time to continue walking. The stink remains, but I can’t do anything about that; I need to focus on what I can control. So, I pick myself up, turn off the taps, shake myself down, and step out of the shower.

The water’s been running for so long that the whole room’s misty — even with the fan going full-force, as much moisture’s sticking to me as it is dripping from me. My fault. Moped about for too long. Another mistake to add to the list. Now I’m wasteful as well as depraved.

Stop.

…Damn it, what’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a child. I’m a grownup. Grownups have grownup problems and they make grownup mistakes, and the difference between me and a child is that a child… doesn’t know what they’re doing. But I do: I’m going to finish in here, walk over there, wake him up, and tell him…

…Tell him what?

The truth.

Well, yeah, that much is obvious, but what I mean is… how. How do I start that conversation? How does it progress? How does it end? What happens afterwards? What do I hope to achieve?

You know what you want.

Not really.

Yes, you do. You’re just afraid of mucking it up.

And why shouldn’t I be? There’s more riding on this than any Wonderbolts performance; I can’t afford to blunder and I don’t have teammates to carry me. It’s all or nothing.

Precisely. So, give it your all.

Easier said than done.

It always is, yet look how far you’ve come.

And how much.

…Did you seriously just…

Let it not be known that I can’t have fun at my own expense.

…Okay, but you still have a job to do.

I know, I know, and I’ll go do it soon enough. I just need to loosen up a little. Not in the way I did last night, though. But how, then?

You could finish drying off, for starters.

I look down at myself, then reach over and snatch a towel from the rack and rub back and forth, head to neck to withers to croup. As for my tail, I sit down and wring it out over the lip of the shower, careful not to tug too hard that I pull at the hair roots. Once upon a time, Dad would step on it to stop a naughty me from storming off, and I’ve had this irrational fear of it ever since. My wings, on the other hoof, just need to be flapped a few times to shake all the water off.

When I’m sure I’m dry enough, I step up to the sink, then wipe the fog from the glass and inspect my new reflection. And I find it interesting. Not off-putting or disappointing or, somehow, appealing, just interesting. It’s not every day that I pay attention to just how much I’m used to seeing my mane styled in a certain way, or how frizzy it and my fur can get. I seem to almost have doubled in bulk, and I know if I blow-dried it, I’d look even larger. Fluffier.

…He'd like that, wouldn’t he?

My eyes widen and my ears pin back. Where in the world did that come from?

Same as every other thought. You know what you want.

…No. I’m not treading that path. What happened was a mistake, not some premeditated act, conscious or not. It couldn’t be. I know I wouldn’t do this on purpose, because I’m not that kind of pony — haven’t been for a long-ass time. And he wouldn’t either; firstly, because he’s told me how difficult it is to see a pony in that way, and secondly, we agreed. We promised. Nothing radical.

Unless…

No, no, big-time no-no. The possibility of him lying aside — whatever reason he’d have for it — he wouldn’t dare spike my drink. That’s not who he is. That’s not the pony I’ve come to know and… appreciate. And he knows and appreciates that I appreciate him. He wouldn’t betray that kind of bond, no way no how, and he certainly wouldn’t be dumb enough to wait until morning to make his escape if he did.

You’ve found a good one.

I’ve ‘found’ nopony. We’re friends. This changes nothing.

Then tell him that.

I will. I will. I just need to gather my nerves first. And then I’m going over there. We’re going to sit down and have a nice, calm, civil, mature discussion, as grownups do. We’re going to figure out what happened, and we’re going to figure out a way forward. And I’m not going to chicken out of this.

I am Fleetfoot. Senior Airpony and third in command of the Wonderbolts — the most elite flying unit in all of Equestria. I’ve performed to millions all across the kingdom and beyond, from the deserts of Saddle Arabia to the freezing mountains of Yakyakistan, from the peak of Mount Aris to the volcanic plains of the Dragonlands. My name is known far and wide; chanted, praised, admired, adored. There are hundreds of shows hanging from my belt, and I’ve never faltered. Not once.

I don’t get stage fright.

And yet my eyes, ears and clenched teeth tell a very different story.

Oh, how the press would kill to see me now. I can see the headlines already; something long and gushing about a fated romance, and how ironic it is that I can handle quite easily the attention of millions, but get cold hooves at the thought of being close with one.

Worst thing is, they’d be right. Maybe I’ve had my head out of the game too long. Not that I wanted to return, or was an active player to begin with. What passion I had for it died a long time ago, and I was okay with that. It’s only recently that things started to change — that my perspective began to shift. Ever since he…

I shut my eyes and sigh. No more doubting, no more speculating, no more reminiscing. It’s now or never. It’ll suck any way I cut it, but at least here, I’m able to dictate our talk on my terms.

I am in control.

I open my eyes again, fixing the mirror with a hard, resolute stare, then brush my mane into something that resembles my regular do, if a little wet and droopy, and smooth out the fur on my face. For what it’s worth, I ought to look presentable, and he… I… we’ve always liked familiarity. If there’s a way to help either of us feel comfortable, however slight, I’ll take it. It’s all I can do.

I take a deep breath in through the nose, wings and chest fur rising, and out through the mouth, and everything falls back in place. A good stretch always calms the mind, as if I could simply shrug off all the tension in the world. And with that, I purse my lips, give a terse nod, then turn and stroll for the door.

---

Words and actions are two very different things: words are easy, actions are hard. In this case, telling myself I have a plan and the will to execute it is simple enough, but getting further than the doorway is proving… difficult.

It’s his clothes. They’re strewn all over the floor. One shoe’s by the bed, the other’s flipped upside down by the closet, and the jacket, shirt, shorts and socks lie wherever. Either we fought over something or tussled about on the floor, or he was really, really eager. Heavens forbid, if I helped undress him…

My mouth feels dry and my teeth are beginning to chatter. Nothing exaggerated, like on the worst nights of winter, when even pegasi’s natural resistance can’t protect us from the frost, but lightly, like a typewriter. It’s an odd thing to notice, and even weirder to behold; it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like this. Awkwardness, sure enough, but not the oppressive pit of dread that opens when I think of confronting him.

But if I want even the slimmest chance to salvage what little I can from this absolute disaster of a morning, this is the only way. And if I’ve already convinced myself a few times already, I can certainly do it again.

I am in control.

I breathe deep, stretch my wings once more, as well as my shoulders, neck, back, tail, fore- and hindlegs, feel the shameful ache in my thighs again — which has thankfully lessened — then trundle onward. I step over and around the clothes in my path, along with a few stray feathers I’d somehow missed. That gives me all the more reason to stop and look for a third option, but I don’t; I push the thought to the back of my mind and stay on course.

Being a Wonderbolt means putting duty above personal gain. I’ve done it a hundred times before, I can do it now, even if the circumstances aren’t the exact same. And I wouldn’t be able to call myself a good pony if I backed out now, or ever.

I come to a halt at his side of the bed and stare at the blanket concealing him. All that stands between us is that simple, patterned piece of fabric and stuffing. By removing it, I’d be breaking a seal, like a tin can or time capsule, and there won’t be any way to replace it. But it has to be done. For his… my… both our sakes.

Gosh, it’s weird to think like that. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never cared about anypony’s feelings before today, because I have. It’s just… ‘us’, ‘our’ and ‘we’ aren’t words I’ve ever really associated with myself, and to apply them in such an intimate setting, for lack of a better term, feels completely alien.

I am me. He is him. We aren’t a thing. This was a mistake.

I reach out a hoof and pull the blanket away from his head.

He’s lying on his side, facing me, short hair frazzled and pointing all over the place, eyes closed, lips parted, a single feather protruding from his mouth. I haven’t disturbed him.

With a quiet sigh and furrowed brows, I lean closer and give his shoulder a gentle nudge.

No response.

“Philip,” I whisper, prodding a little harder.

His lips meet and curl into a displeased expression, eyes scrunching up and a soft groan escaping him.

“Philip, wake up.”

With a sharp breath in, his eyes open, blink a few times, then focus on me. A slight frown snakes across his brows, more confused than annoyed.

All the same, my legs suddenly feel very weak and shaky, and my insides feel very cold and hollow, like I’m lying flat on thin ice. In a way, I suppose I am.

His eyes narrow and his lips curl to ask a question, but something stops him. A realisation.

He looks to the shoulder my hoof is touching, then lifts the blanket and peers further down to where, thankfully, I can’t see. And then he picks the feather from his mouth and stares at it with wide eyes. Then he bolts upright and shares those wide eyes with the rest of the room, scanning, observing, taking in all the information, until they find the other half of the bed. The ruffled sheets. The hoofprints to the bathroom. The hoofprints back. Me.

His breathing is slow, but audible. He holds the blanket close to his waist. With pleading eyes, upturned brows and a trembling jaw, he silently begs me to say it isn’t so.

Unfortunately, I have to disappoint.

“We need to talk.”

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