“…battled hard last night, man,” Quinn adds.

“So hard.” Ambrose looks ready to puke again. “I never want to drink whiskey again. Why did nobody stop me?”

I snort out a laugh and pull out a stool. “Yeah, because that always works super well for the person trying to get on you about anything.”

“Get on me any day,” he says under his breath.

I flick him on the chin with my fingers.

“WHY?” he shouts.

“Because you’re a dick!” I shout right back.

Quinn just laughs. “That he is.”

Ambrose curses. “Can someone just be on my side for once? I’m so fucking hungover I want to cry, and I never cry; tears are for pussies.”

I glare.

He glares back, then finally flicks his fingers at me like I shouldn’t be offended. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I though?” I ask, leaning forward. Quinn turns off the stove and brings over the bacon, dropping it onto a white paper towel while Ambrose chugs his drink. It’s super hard not to stare at Quinn’s six-pack or the fact that he’s sporting his typical black-rimmed glasses.

Clark Kent is literally in my kitchen.

Superman is sitting next to me.

My life is no longer normal.

Ambrose smiles over at me, it’s sloppy but sexy, and it’s hard not to remember what that mouth has done to me. “Don’t get offended just because I talked about my favorite—“

I grab a hot piece of bacon and shove it into his mouth.

“WHY!” He spits it out. It falls onto the table and bounces toward his hand. “It’s hot as hell!”

“Oops.” I throw up my hands while Quinn laughs. I like his laugh; it’s easy, not like he’s forcing it.

Quinn tosses another piece of bacon toward Ambrose. Grease gets on the white counter, but I don’t really care, and neither do they. “Don’t be a baby; get some protein in there.”

“You get protein in there.” Ambrose grumbles, then grabs the bacon and tears a piece off with his teeth.

“He’s weird when he’s hungover,” I comment after staring at him for a few seconds. Truly though, it’s like he has no filter, and I love it.

“Normal.” Quinn nods. “It’s like watching an animal go savage in Zootopia.”

We both look to Quinn.

He shrugs. “What?”

“That’s the example you come up with?” I laugh. “Zootopia?” Ambrose tears into another piece of bacon. “I’m not savage, you piece of shit. I’m just… damn, so tired, so so so tired.”

Quinn grins and grabs another bite of bacon. “He’s like the sweet little otter that loses his way from a night howler, and why are you both looking at me like I’ve lost it?”

Ambrose crosses his arms. “It’s not like I bit you, jackass.”

“Yet you wanted to.”

The room tenses.

Ambrose shoves back his barstool.

I imagine a fight breaking out.

He leans over the counter until he’s inches from Quinn’s comically stunned face. “Why don’t I just bite her?”