“Whoops,” he manages between giggles. “Ground moved.”
And just like that, the spell breaks.
I let out a breath, shaking my head to clear the fog. He’s not lucid enough to recognize his own feet, let alone some cosmic romantic connection.
“Okay, buddy.” I hook my arm through his again, more firmly this time, because if I don’t stop him, he’s going to attempt a heroic lurch and introduce his face to the ground. “You’re operating on fumes. Let’s get you to the car before you fall.”
“I’m… I’m fine. This is my normal walking.”
“Sure it is.”
He huffs, then leans closer like he’s about to tell me a state secret. “June.”
“No.”
“But, June.”
“Nope. Walk now, delusions later.”
He attempts a pout. Not a little one, either. A full, bottom-lip-out, wounded-pride pout that should not be possible on a grownman with arms like fence posts. It’s frankly unfair. He does it anyway, eyes bright and stubborn beneath the streetlight.
“You can’t just boss me around,” he mutters.
“Oh, I absolutely can,” I say, tightening my grip and steering him away from the bar, away from the people and the noise in there. “I’m doing it right now.”
He lets me guide him for three steps. Four. Then he plants his boots like a dramatic statue and turns his head.
“Stop,” he says.
“If you throw up on my shoes, I’m listing you as a fixer-upper and selling you to the highest bidder.”
He lifts a finger, solemn. “Darlin’.” The word lands wrong. Not bad wrong. Just… too intimate. Too natural in his mouth. It slides under my ribs like it knows the way.
I blink hard. “Don’t. Just walk.”
He allows himself to be moved again. “You know,” he says, voice lowering conspiratorially, “this isn’t even the first time I’ve been arrested.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s not the reassuring fun fact you think it is.”
“It’s a character fact.” He jabs a thumb at his chest like he’s presenting evidence. “I’ve got… layers.”
“Like inShrek?” I laugh.
“And a record,” he adds proudly, ignoring me, then immediately squints as if trying to remember whether that’s something to brag about. “Not proud of the record. Well. Depends which one.”
“Please tell me you are not about to list your charges like they’re belt buckles.”
He gasps and sways slightly. “How dare you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He leans against a storefront, eyes too blue, too sharp for how unsteady he is. “They made it sound worse than it was.”
“That sentence has never been followed by anything comforting.”
“It was a misunderstanding.” He waves his hand, and the motion takes his whole body with it. I tighten my hold before he can tip. “And I didn’t even start the fight.”
“Uh-huh.”
