“Wow, you’ve got a nice place,” I say as we step into Ian’s apartment.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but it’snotnothing. We’re both sophomores, but Ian is anadult, at least based on where he lives.
For how excitable Ian is, the place is neater than I would have thought, but that’s me making assumptions again. Sure, there’s stuff lying around, but that’s what happens when you have more than five outfits and college supplies. He has a dining table. And a couch.Andlights that aren’t harsh white—they’re almost candle-like.
It's comfortable here. I imagine this house is what people would call “homey.” Ian's place is as warm as he is, which I guess makes sense.
“Yo, Cal,” he calls out from the kitchen. “Beer?”
“Yeah, sure.” I have no idea what to expect, given that the only alcohol I’ve ever had before was an accidental sip of the diluted communion wine at church.
Yeah. That got me a whack to the head from Mom when she saw me “going astray.” Still, that didn’t stop her and Dad from drinking for fun.
Hypocrites.
Right as I settle down at the dining table, my darkening thoughts are halted by Ian, who’s carrying the promised beer.
I do a double-take. He’s carrying the biggest glass mug I think I’ve ever seen, and he sets it down in front of me with a sweet smile.
“If you’d like, I can add a shot to that,” he offers, walking to a cart stacked with various bottles. “I’m making myself another drink anyway.”
“Uh, I’m good, but thanks. Also, weren’t you at a party fifteen minutes ago?”
Ian chuckles as I take a long sip of beer, and I can’t tell what warms me up. “Hey, I’m not about to make you drink alone,” he says, uncapping a small brown bottle.
I linger on his long, solid fingers as they shake a couple of drops from the bottle into a short glass. With a smooth movement, he adds something clear from a different bottle, a generous pour of what I’m guessing is whiskey, and then he stirs before placing one single giant ice cube in the glass. Everything about that is so precise and graceful, and it takes Ian turning toward me to make me snap out of it. I can’t get caught staring at him.
“What’s that?” I ask him, hoping to deflect any suspicion.
“An old fashioned.” He takes a sip. “You want one?”
I let out a quiet laugh, nodding to my almost-full mug of beer. “Not much of a drinker,” I say, stretching the truth before deciding to be completely honest anyway. “Haven't drunk before, actually.”
Ian stops mid-drink and widens his eyes. “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t know when I poured you all that beer. No pressure to finish it.”
Smiling, I wave him off. “It’s okay. I’m good to try. I’m not twenty-one yet, so I have no way of getting any.”
“Nothing in high school, even? At least one person always has a fake ID.”
“I was sheltered,” I say simply. Avoiding the full story is the best option right now.
He nods. “Well, you’re free now,” he says, raising his glass. “Allow me to be a bad influence.”
My stomach gets even warmer, and I’m almost certain that it’s because of his warm, kind expression, and not the beer.
No. Nope.I cut my thoughts off with a sip of beer that becomes a chug.
“Woah, go easy there.” Ian grins. “Don’t go too hard.”
I’m about to say I’m fine again, but he claps a hand on top of mine after I put the glass down, presumably to stop me from taking another drink too soon.
If my core is warm, my hand isburningin the best way. Ian fixes me with a naughty, joking expression that makes my stomach flip, and I chuckle to release some of the nerves that are coiling in my gut.
He’s trying to be your friend. Get a grip and let him.
The weight of his hold shifts from my hand to my wrist, and he leans in. The alcohol clouding my mind stops me from recoiling how I usually would, and I smile instead.
“Dude, your shirt is so fucking soft,” he mumbles, rubbing the cuff of my shirt between his fingers. “Where did you get this?”
