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“Heyyy,” he drawls, head lolling against the sink. “Sable’s here—brought the boss man, too.”
I roll my eyes, dabbing at his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. What was it this time?”
“S’just… tequila,” he slurs, dragging the word out.
Of course it was.
I sigh, swipe the damp towels across his chin and collar, and ball them up tight. “Tequila. Same old story. You’d think you’d learn.”
“Learning’s boring,” he says, then hiccups.
“Right.” I shake my head and glance up, already feeling Noah hovering close.
“Where does he live?” Noah asks, voice clipped but practical. “I can book him an Uber.”
I shake my head, tossing the paper towels in the trash. “He’s not going home like this. Can’t leave him on his own, not when he’s this far gone. I’ll bring him back to mine for the night.”
Noah’s already pulling his phone out. “Alright. I’ll get it sorted.”
Eleanor’s brow furrows. “Wait—what? How do you know where—”
Noah shrugs. “We live in the same building.”
Eleanor’s brows shoot up as she looks between us. “Oh? I didn’t know that… That’s interesting.”
I ignore her and press another towel into Sam’s floppy hand, shooting Noah a glance. “Can you help me get him up?”
“Yeah.” Noah slides the phone into his pocket, steps forward and crouches beside us, looping one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder. I take the other side, and between the two of us we get him upright. Sam mutters something incoherent into Noah’s shoulder. Noah shoots me a look over his head—eyebrows raised, the faintest twitch of a smile—and I almost laugh despite myself.
“Alright,” I say, adjusting Sam’s deadweight arm across my shoulder. “Let’s get him out of here before he redecorates the floor and Marla ends up getting fined or sued or sacrificed to the event gods. I’ll catch you on Monday, Eleanor.”
Eleanor huffs out a tired laugh, but she doesn’t follow. Noah and I drag Sam toward the back exit, his feet half-dragging, half-shuffling along the tile.
We get him into the Uber without too much struggle and he slumps between us. His head lolls from side to side, occasionally thunking against my shoulder, then Noah’s.
The heat between Noah and me is still there, pulsing under the surface, but it’s dulled now, edged out by cheap car upholstery and Sam groaning softly every time the driver hits a bump. I fold my arms and stare out the window, trying to keep my mind on the one task at hand instead of how his fingers felt inside me and how Eleanor looked us up and down like she damn well knew what we’d been doing.
Forty minutes later, we wrestle Sam out of the car and haul him into the building. Through the lobby, into the elevator, down the hall in a slow, clumsy procession with him mumbling nonsense between us the whole way.
By the time we reach my apartment, I’m sweating and done.
We shuffle him through the door, past the heap of my shoes, past what’s left of my pride, and finally drop him onto the couch. He lands with a groan, already half-asleep and snoring, and I grab a throw blanket from the armchair and toss it over him.
I straighten up slowly, pressing a hand into my lower back. “Well,” I say. “That was a fucking buzzkill.”
Noah’s standing behind the couch, hair ruffled from my hands, collar still crooked. He shifts on his feet awkwardly before glancing up at me. “Do you want help? Or… do you need anything?”
“It’s fine. You can go home,” I tell him, brushing my palms down the front of my dress.
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, shoulders tight, watching me. The silence stretches until it presses too close, and I can feel his eyes on me even as I fuss pointlessly with the edge of the blanket.
“Do you… want me to? Do you want me to leave?”
My heart thumps wickedly, the beat echoing hard through my ribs. Do I want him to leave? No. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him gone. I want to finish what we started.
I shake my head once, voice barely more than a whisper. “No.”
Before he can speak, I move. Rounding the couch, I slip my fingers through his and pull him with me toward my room.
