“Yeah,” I reply, forcing a lightness into my voice that I don’t feel. “All good.”
Without thinking, I reach for the drink in his hand, fingers wrapping around the glass. I tip it back before he can stop me and down the whiskey in one quick, burning gulp. The warmth floods my chest, and I close my eyes for a second, savoring the strange mix of comfort and fire.
“Whoa, hey.” Rafael reaches out, a hand steadying me by thewaist as I lower the empty glass, my lips tingling. “Did you forget what it tastes like?”
“I told you.” I set the glass back in his hand as the whiskey hits me. “Drinking often boils down to motivation.”
He chuckles softly, but his hand doesn’t leave my waist. “Boy, you’re going to regret that,” he murmurs. “Want to tell me what happened with your friend?”
“Not really.” I glance behind him, where Theo, Paige, and Vanessa are chatting at the table. “I’m sorry about them, though.”
Between Vanessa nearly arresting him and the obvious argument I had with Theo, I’m not sure he’s getting the welcome party he deserves.
“Nothing to be sorry about. I’m used to it.”
I watch his easy, honest smile and reciprocate. It might be the whiskey loosening me up already, but I decide right here and now that Rafael would never do what Theo accused him of. He’s a good person.
With a playful glint in his eyes, he leans closer and asks, “But I’ve got to ask. Is that all they are?Friends?”
Oh my God,of coursehe thinks there’s something between Theo and me. “Yes. Nothing’s ever happened between us.”
He glances back at the group. “Guess I just got a weird vibe.”
“Theo’s… a little worried,” I say. “That’s all.”
“I get it.” He tilts his head. “But I wasn’t talking about Theo.”
the caretaking[trope]
a romantically charged act of nurturing, often occurring when one character is rendered temporarily helpless by illness, injury, or their own lack of common sense; the caretaking usually culminates in a heartfelt confession or a poorly timed sneeze that ruins the mood but wins hearts anyway
“Dale a tu… something something, Macarena,” I sing, swaying my hips and bringing my hand to rest dramatically on one side. I cast a quick look at Rafael, who’s trailing a few steps behind me. Shadows dance over his sharp features, softening them just enough to remind me of how utterly unfair it is that someone can look this good and take this long to kiss me.
“Wait,” I say, stumbling slightly but catching myself. “Why aren’t you dancing the Macarena?”
Tone dripping with amusement, he says, “That would be because I’m not drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, either,” I insist, wobbling just slightly as I toss my hair back.
“Is that so?”
“Yes—” My protest is cut short as my foot catches on an uneven patch of sidewalk. The world tilts, and before I can do much about it, I land ass-first in a low bush. Twigs poke at my back, and the leaves crumple noisily under me.
“You were saying?” Rafael asks as he extends a hand toward me.
“Okay, so maybe I’m drunk,” I admit, grabbing hold of his hand. He pulls me up with ease, and we stand close, his steady hands brushing stray leaves from my dress.
“We’re almost home. Can you make it?”
I glance around at the quiet street, with the distant hum of the occasional car and the soft rustle of wind in the trees wrapping around us. Actually, we’re only halfway there, and though it’s an objectively short walk, it feels like an eternity.
“I’m tired, and my heels hurt,” I grumble, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
He points down. “You’re not wearing heels.”
“Oh.” I stare at the worn sneakers I laced up earlier in the night. “Then I’m just tired.”
“All right.” He steps closer, and his hand presses lightly against my back. “Arms around my neck.”
