My foot catches on nothing. The world tips. Strong hands catch me, and for a second I'm pressed against a chest that's warm and solid and smells like cinnamon, and then I'm being set upright like a wobbling toy.
"Sorry," I say, and then immediately: "Wait, no. Not sorry. You're invading my home. I should be falling on you on PURPOSE as a protest."
"I'll keep that in mind."
My hands shake too hard to work the phone. I drop it. He picks it up, and I brace for him to confiscate this too, but he just hands it back. Our fingers brush. His are steady. Mine aren't.
Music fills the apartment. Loud. Bass-heavy. Something I can feel in my chest. The thoughts retreat, just a little.
"Too loud?" I ask, but it's not really a question.
"I've heard louder."
"Let me guess. War zones. Explosions. Very masculine things."
"Something like that."
I curl into my corner of the couch, vodka clutched like a teddy bear. He's still standing. Of course he's still standing. I don't think he knows how to sit. He probably sleeps standing up, like a horse.
"Are you a horse?"
"No."
"You stand like a horse. Very upright. Very… vertical."
"Most humans are vertical."
"I'm horizontal right now. I'm a rebel." I'm not horizontal; I'm sort of diagonal, slumped against the cushions like a discarded puppet. "Do you ever just… lie down? Be a mess? Exist without purpose?"
"No."
"That's sad." I drink more vodka. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. You should try it sometime. Being a mess. It's very freeing."
"I'll pass."
"Your loss." I yawn, enormous and unladylike. The crash is coming. I can feel it—the edges of everything going fuzzy, the manic energy draining away, leaving just exhaustion and the familiar empty ache. "I'm going to sleep. Or try to. You should… also sleep. In the guest room. Which is where you're staying, I guess, since you won't leave."
"Correct."
"You're very stubborn."
"So are you."
"Yeah, but I'm charming about it." I heave myself off the couch. The world sways, but I've got this. I've been navigating drunk since I was seventeen. Muscle memory. "Don't murder me in my sleep."
"No guarantees."
I stop. Turn. He almost—ALMOST—looks like he might be joking. It's hard to tell with Easter Island statues.
"Did you just make another joke?"
"Unlikely."
"You're a mystery, Nico Rosetti." I wave a hand vaguely in his direction. "An annoying, judgmental, creepressive mystery."
"Goodnight, Marisol."
It's the first time he's said my name. Just my name, without the surname, without the formality. It sounds different in his voice. Softer. Or maybe that's the drugs and alcohol finally pulling me under.
