The night air sobered me up a little.
Just a little.
I leaned against him as he half-carried me into the passenger seat.
The car was quiet except for the occasional navigation voice.
One hand on the wheel, his profile flickered under passing streetlights.
Drunk, I stared at him shamelessly. How is he still so good-looking even while driving?
Seven years, and that clean, cool scent of his hadn’t changed at all.
It took me right back to every afternoon I followed him around as a freshman.
In my haze, I reached for the hand on the gear shift, then chickened out and pulled back.
He noticed, glanced over, throat moving, but said nothing—just drove more steadily.
“We’re here,” he said softly.
At my building, he came around, helped me out, and half-supported, half-carried me upstairs.
