“Mom, how’s it going?” he says to the picture. “You’re looking fantastic, really sepia-toned. Please don’t judge my behavior at the moment.” He glances away from the photo to look at me, his gaze locking on to mine. “Because I am drinking, and I have a pretty girl in my room, and I might kiss her.”

“Are you drunk?” I ask suddenly, leaning closer to him—so close I can see a fleck of gold in one of his eyes.

“Probably,” he says. “A little.” He smiles at me in an easy, relaxed way, and I feel myself drawn to him, smiling to match his.

“I think I might be,” I say.

And then he kisses me. I’ve only been kissed once before, at summer camp when I was fifteen. This kiss is nothing like that one—a kiss I now know, with certainty, didn’t count. Dean’s tongue rubs against my lips, begging permission, and so I open them and let him in, the feel of it new and wonderful. He moves his hand from my neck down my arm and then takes hold of my hand, intertwining our fingers. He tugs me over to the bed, never breaking contact. I sit down with a thunk, the bed lower than I expected it to be, and start to giggle, the tension and energy between us too much. Dean pulls away to place a light kiss on the top of my nose.

“You’re cute.”

He gently pushes me back so I’m lying on the bed, and then lies over me, his body covering mine, touching mine in all the right places. His hands roam through my hair and down the side of my waist to touch the bare skin between my jeans and top. He pulls his lips from mine and begins to press light kisses down my neck, and I tighten my grasp on his shirt. His smell is intoxicating, aftershave mixed faintly with tobacco smoke, and something about it feels so grown up. He smells like a man somehow, not like some boy from high school, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, entwined together on the bed. It could be hours, days, years. I’m in a daze, my only thoughts on the feel of him.

“You should stay over,” he says, breathing huskily into my ear. His voice is a rough whisper and as he speaks, his lips brush the soft skin of my earlobe.

“What about my friends?” I ask, pulling away slightly.

“They’ll be fine.” He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “They can stay over too, on the couch. Or they can go home. Whatever.”