"They're the exceptions."
"Maybe you could be too. If you stopped being so afraid of it."
Jinx goes very still. For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. Then he tilts his head, studying me with those unreadable green-gray eyes.
"You're interesting," he says finally. "I can see why my brother likes you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation. Make of it what you will."
"I think," Elliot says carefully, "we should maybe go to bed before someone says something they can't take back."
"Too late for that," Jinx says cheerfully. "We're well past the point of no return. But yes, bed sounds good. I'm going to hate myself tomorrow."
"You hate yourself every day." Jagger chuckles.
"True. But tomorrow I'll have a hangover to go with it."
We untangle ourselves, help each other up, make our way to our respective rooms. Jinx claims the couch again, waving off offers of actual beds. "I sleep better with exits visible," he explains. "Old habit."
In our room, Jagger helps me undress, which is necessary because my coordination has completely abandoned me. I flop onto the bed and watch him move around the room, checking the windows, the door, the angles.
"You're still doing that," I observe.
"Doing what?"
"Security sweep. Even now. Even drunk."
"It's automatic." He strips off his own clothes and slides into bed beside me. "I don't know how to stop."
"Don't stop. It's hot. Very competent. Very 'I'll murder anyone who threatens you.'"
"You find murder hot?"
"I find you hot. The murder is incidental."
He laughs. It's quiet and surprised and one of my favorite sounds in the world.
"You're drunk," he says.
"Very. But I'll feel the same way tomorrow. When I'm sober and hungover and regretting the absinthe."
"You should regret the absinthe. It was a mistake."
"No regrets." I curl into him, press my face against his chest. "None. Not a single one. Not the absinthe, not the shots, not you. Especially not you."
His arms wrap around me. His lips press against my forehead.
"Go to sleep, Jonah."
"Say something nice first."
"I love you."
The words are quiet. Almost whispered. I don't think he meant to say them.
I tilt my head up. His gray eyes are wide, startled by his own confession.
