It was darker than usual in Stan's room tonight; the streetlight outside his house must have burned out again. I waved my hand in front of my face, but saw only blackness. Beside me, I could hear Stan's steady breathing that indicated he was out for the night, not waking up anytime soon. I rolled over so I was facing him, but all I could see in the dark was the vague outline of his body beneath the blankets. I was so tired. I closed my eyes, and just listened to him breathe in and out. He really was amazing. Perfect… I wanted to wake him up so I could kiss him, touch him, look deep into his dark eyes and tell Christophe how much I loved him…

FUCK!I sat up straight so quickly I almost tumbled off the bed. My heart thumped in my chest and I looked at Stan's sleeping form, horrified that he may have somehow he'd heard my thoughts, or worse, that I'd actually spoken out loud. What the fuck was wrong with me? Stan. I loved Stan. Not Christophe. Christophe was a mistake. I didn't actually love him. I couldn't love him. He was with Kenny, happily with Kenny, as he'd proven in class today. I shook my head from side to side, but images of Christophe and Kenny's epic mid-bio-class makeout session refused to disappear. If that wasn't proof enough that whatever my thing was with Christophe, it wasn't reciprocated.

Wait. What thing? I didn't have a thing with or for that French asshole, I yelled at myself. No matter how hot he was… I felt myself blushing as I recalled the way I'd felt when he'd saved me from cracking my head on the floor today. My stomach had twisted and all I'd wanted was for him to kiss me, right there, in front of everyone, in front of Kenny and Stan. I could have sworn he was going to; he'd looked down at me with those almost-black eyes of his and I'd felt, oh, God, I'd felt something I only ever felt when I was with him at night… I shivered, but I wasn't cold, I was…

I needed it. I craved that feeling. Carefully, desperately trying not to wake up Stan, I slid out from under the covers and crawled across his bedroom floor to where I'd plugged my cell phone in. I glanced at the time—2:44—and yanked the charger's cord out of the phone. Hating myself the entire time, I pulled on my jeans, shoved my cell in my pocket, and slid open Stan's window as quietly as I could, just enough so I could slip out. I hit the ground and starting walking quickly, eagerly, in the direction of Christophe's house. I pulled out my phone and flipped it open, hitting the number 3 and then SEND. I put my phone to my ear, praying that he was home.

And alone.