My own eyes glower back at me, my gaze harsh and unwavering from the page. It’s a portrait from the shoulders up, shelves of bottles blurring behind me in the background, and it’s drawn in such painstaking detail that a loud buzzing sound fills my brain.
Because… my stubble. My mouth. That tiny scar notched in my earlobe, from a stray fishing hook when I was a boy. The tired lines at the corners of my eyes. It’s all there, every last detail of me—like looking in a mirror, except more flattering somehow.
When did Waverly look at me so closely? When did she stare long enough to draw this? And did she like what she saw?
Guilt twists my gut, but I’m in too deep to stop now. Screw my eternal soul; screw the last shreds of my restraint. Tossing a glance at the bathroom door, I flip back to th
