“No, like…” The words are slippery. Drunk words. “You show up. Even when you don’t want to. That matters.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Still true.”
We sit there, surrounded by bar noise. His knee bumps mine under the table.
He doesn’t move it.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“I’m sorry about the forearm thing.”
He laughs, low and rumbly, and dang it, that’s hot. “The forearm thing. Right.”
“Shut up.”
“Just trying to understand what makes them criminal.”
I look at him. Really look. He’s relaxed tonight, beer bottle loose in his hand, sleeves rolled up because he hates me specifically.
“It’s the way you…” I gesture vaguely. “When you roll them up. It’s very…”
“Very?”
“Competent.”
“Competent?” He’s definitely laughing at me now.
“Like you could… I don’t know. Build something. Or fix something. Or—”
“Or?”
Take me apart. Put me back together. Ruin me for other forearms.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Mason crashes into our table. “Deeeean! Stop flirting and come play!”
“We’re not—” Dean starts.
“Poppy thinks your arms are competent!” Mason stage-whispers. “She told everyone!”
I’m going to murder him. At his own wedding.
“Go,” I tell Dean. “Before he hurts himself.”
He stands and pauses. “For what it’s worth?”
“What?”
“I think your everything is competent.”
Then he’s gone, herding Mason back to the darts.
