“Just a little playlist I cooked up,” he says.
He takes a sip straight from a small bottle he’s now produced—whiskey, obviously, because wine and whiskey go together on a hot night like tonight—then gestures toward the speaker as “Midnight Whiskey”starts playing.
My song. The one he made fun of.
My stomach clenches.
“Oh my God,” I say, laughing, covering my face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m committed to the bit,” he says. “Hey…” he leans in, staring at my face and tilting my head. “What’s that?”
“What? Do I have something on my face?”
“Yeah. Some ketchup…”
He brushes my chin and laughs lightly, until I swat his hand away.
“Jerk,” I say, laughing.
And then—because apparently he has no shame—he starts singing along, badly, loudly, and dramatically.
I laugh harder, shaking my head, but I can’t stop watching him.
Because he’s not performing, exactly.
Or maybe he is. But if so, it’s not in the way I’ve seen before.
This is so loose, easy, and real.
The opposite of Professor Eric.
He stands up and holds a hand out to me. “Dance with me.”
“There is no dancing to this song.”
“Not with that attitude.”
I roll my eyes, but I get up anyway.
He pulls me in, one hand at my waist, the other still holding the bottle, swaying like we’re the only two people on earth.
And in that moment, it kind of feels like we are.
The laughter fades a little, and the music softens. I can see stars in the sky.
And suddenly I’m very aware of how close we are.
How his hand shifts slightly against my back. How my fingers curl into his shirt.
“I was with someone for years,” I hear myself say.
The words come out quieter than I expect.
“And we never did anything like this.”
I swallow.
“Not even close.”
