“Okay,” he said, taking that as his cue to stand, giving her a hand and holding her elbows as though he knew that her legs felt like they didn’t know yet that she was fine.

He had beautiful hands, strong and warm and, like the rest of him, unmarred by a single imperfection. How had she never noticed his hands before?

“You have beautiful hands. Why have I never noticed that before?” Why was everything she was thinking flying out of her mouth? “Why is everything I’m—” She pressed a hand into her mouth.

He turned on the faucet—was he smiling?—and walked her to the sink. It was like they were stuck in an endless loop of his walking her to sinks all over the world. One sink, then another, then another.

“Where do you keep your pajamas?”

She met his eyes in the mirror. They were definitely smiling even though he was fighting hard to keep them blank, stoically putting his entire energy into not embarrassing her. Well, hah! “With those eyes, good luck hiding anything, baby!”

The way his eyes widened, she had to have said that out loud too.

Stop it!

What was wrong with her?

Her bathroom spun around her head, answering her question rather succinctly. A giggle flew out of her.

“I can’t feel my own head.” She let it drop from side to side like a bobblehead. “I’m so fucking drunk.”

This time his smile was open and teasing. “No! Really?” Leaning her into the vanity to make sure she didn’t face-plant, he went back into her room.

She splashed her face some more and rinsed her mouth and tried to keep from diving into the sink because it felt like a swimming pool. Was it a swimming pool?

Strong hands pulled her out of the sink. Straightening up felt like falling backward, and it made her giggle some more.

She sagged into him. So solid. He was so solid. An arm came up in front of her face and held a nightshirt up. “Do you need help getting out of—”

She spun around, stumbled again. He held her up. Again.

“He wants to undress me,” she announced to her all-white bathroom and patted his cheek. “Sweet boy.” She pushed him away. The vanity was digging into her butt, but it kept her from sliding to the ground. She reached behind her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is?”

He made one of his speaking faces: I know. But I’m not sure which hardship you’re referring to right now. No one else she knew did this: talked without talking.

She patted his cheek again; his dimples felt loud against her palm, exaggerated dips and curves, textured patterns of sensation. “Have you ever tried to get a choli off?”

“Can’t say that I have.” His dimples dug deeper and she stroked one with a finger.

“Are these real?”