For the first time all day, the pressure in my chest eases.
I clink my glass against hers. “To pizza, whiskey, and women who show up with both.”
She grins. “To emotionally complex men who tell their dads to go fuck themselves.”
Touché.
Two glasses of whiskey later, Nora’s got her feet in my lap, sauce on her chin, and she's giggling so hard she almost drops her third slice.
“You’re making that face again,” she says, pointing at me with the crust. “That broody rockstar face. Like you’re about to write a song calledSad Pizza and Existential Crisis in D Minor.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure that’s our next single.”
She mock-gasps. “Do I get writing credit?”
“If you keep feeding Melody treats like this, you get executive producer credit.”
Melody is sprawled across the back of the couch like a fainting Victorian widow. I think she might be drunk on tuna.
Nora leans forward, eyes glassy with warmth and whiskey. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
“You okay?” Her voice softens, cutting through the haze.
I nod slowly. “I am now.”
She smiles. It’s crooked, lazy, devastating. “Good.”
Then she moves—slides right into my lap, one knee on either side of me. Her arms loop around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is.
“You taste like scotch and trouble,” she murmurs.
“And you taste delicious.”
She kisses me. Hard. Messy. Laughing into it like she can’t believe we’re doing this—again—but also like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
It starts clumsy. Too much teeth, not enough coordination. I knock over a throw pillow. She spills a little whiskey on my shirt. Melody huffs in offense and relocates with a dramatic tail flick.
And still—none of it matters.
Because she’s in my lap and on my lips and the world could end right now and I’d die happy.
I slide my hands under her sweater, feeling the warmth of her skin, and she shivers, gasping into my mouth like the touch surprised her. Like it still feels brand new.
“You keep kissing me like this,” I murmur against her neck, “and I’m going to forget what restraint feels like.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair. “Promise?”
God help me.
I kiss her again, slower now, savoring every second. Her laugh dies into a moan. The kind that makes me forget every single thing that isn’t her.
But somewhere in the blur—right before I lose all control—I hear myself say it.
“I want you to come with me.”
She blinks at me, dazed. “Huh?”
