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He looks at me, and I can see it in his eyes when he decides that trusting me is already a thing he does, and he nods. “One,” he says. “If I don’t like it you can have the rest.”

“Deal.”

The drinks come out before the food. Quinn inspects the salt on the rim, touches it with a finger, tastes it, and nods like the restaurant passed a test. Then he takes a sip and his whole face scrunches up.

“It’s sour.”

“That’s the lime.”

“And sweet.”

“That’s the triple sec, it makes it dangerous.”

“And warm.” He swallows again, a smaller sip this time. “That’s the ethanol.”

I grin into my own glass. “You’re going to be a delight.”

He drinks it like he’s doing a lab: sip, pause, assess. By the time his tacos hit the table, he’s a third of the way down and his ears are pink. Not embarrassed-pink, but a warm drinking pink. He picks up a taco with both hands and misses his mouth on the first try by a centimeter, which is the most Quinn way to be slightly off.

“You good?”

“The room is still the same temperature.” He frowns at the taco. “I feel different. That’s interesting.”

“That’s the point, brain.”

He eats. I eat. I talk too much about the third period and Blue almost starting something dumb and Coach screaming himself hoarse. Quinn listens with his chin in his hand, which he doesn’t do when he’s sober. Sober Quinn sits up straight. This Quinn is listing slightly toward me, a soft smile on his face as if every word I utter is the best thing he’s ever heard.

“You were pretty,” he says.

I choke on a drink of my margarita. “What?!”

“On the ice.” He blinks slowly as if he’s replaying the sentence. “I mean. You were good. Fluid. I said pretty. That’s the wrong adjective for hockey. Handsome? Efficient. You were efficient.”

“I'm going to remember pretty.”

“Don’t.” But he’s smiling, small and crooked, and he takes another drink without assessing it. “Christine said that number eighty-nine was hot, and Lincoln looked like he wanted to murder him. But I didn’t look at eighty-nine, because I was looking at you.”

My stomach does something unhelpful. I file it under the tequila talking for him and grab another chip. “Yeah, well, I think there’s some history there.”

“I’m glad I came tonight. I really liked watching you.”

I laugh, so I don’t do something stupid.

“Okay. New rule. You have to eat that other taco before you finish your glass.”

He looks at the taco, then the glass, and clearly does math that no longer includes inhibition. “The glass is more interesting. And rules are made to be broken.”

“Quinn.”

“Daniel.” He draws my name out. Then he giggles. Actually giggles. It’s a bright, startled sound, like he surprised himself, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. “I don’t do that.”

“You do now.”

“I don’t.” He giggles again, helpless to stop it, and drops his forehead to the table for a second. “Oh no. I’m malfunctioning.”

“You’re two-thirds of a margarita in. I think you might just be a lightweight.”

He peeks up from the table, still smiling. “I don’t want to be a lightweight.”