Oh!
And her name.
Still haven’t gotten that yet.
Interestingly enough this situation is beginning to mirror that whole wake up drunk and married to a stranger in Vegas thing.
Although, I’m not drunk – or at least I don’t think I am.
And we’re not married – just a couple for the sake of a good laugh, I guess.
And we’re definitely not in Vegas – which is fine by me since I prefer South Haven Island anyway.
The female in front of me flicks a strand of her long, dark brown hair away from her face and smoothly informs, “You may kiss your fake BAE.”
Befuddlement and levity yet again amalgamate in my expression. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
“Kiss you?”
“Kiss me.”
“As in…kiss you?”
“Yeah,” she relocates the hand on her hip to the edge of my shirt where it lightly tugs me forward, “as in put your face on my face kiss me.”
“You’re joking?”
“No.”
“You’re serious?”
“That’s the opposite of joking last I checked.”
Bewilderment runs rampant throughout my complexion and voice alike, “Actually serious?”
“Next Gennot getting a season eight serious.”
The lowering of my jaw occurs of its own volition.
“Look, the Data level truth is that my ‘doesn’t accept no for an answer unless I’m dating someone else’ ex-boyfriend is about one role credit scene away from us right now, so I’m gonna need you to kiss me to full thrusters that point home.”
Okay.
Not what I was expecting.
However, if I’ve learned anything in my life as the right-hand man to one of the richest men in the world, it’s that the best things rarely are.
It’s how Wes got Bryn.
Spock got Uhura.
Grayson got Gordon.
Perhaps this is how I gether.
My one and only.
