I roll my eyes while pouring eggnog into each glass. Truthfully, I can’t picture anyone else on that couch. Except maybe Trent and Himla. But even so, the memories I have of them are so distorted now, that picture doesn’t quite fit either.

It’s just Jesse and me. The two of us against the world.

Reaching up into the cupboard, I grab the bottle of brandy, pouring some into my eggnog. Then I pause, taking only a couple of seconds to consider it before I add some to Jesse’s glass, too.

He’s eighteen, after all. I’m sure he’s drank before. Hell, I gave him a beer once or twice.

It’s Christmas Eve and this can be a new addition to our tradition, now that he’s a man.

The thought warms my gut as I bring our drinks into the living room. Jesse is already nestled up on his side of the couch, feet buried in his Christmas Rick And Morty socks this time, resting on the couch cushion. The kid always takes up the entire couch, which isn’t very big as it is.

Waltzing over, I plop down, sitting on his toes.

“Rude,” he huffs, pulling his feet back, though there’s a visible grin sneaking out with the word.

Handing him a glass, he takes it, holding it up for a toast.

“Merry Christmas Eve, kid,” I tell him, clinking on his glass.

We both sip at the same time, my eyes going to the movie, which has just started. But the sound of Jesse gurgling brings my gaze back to him.

“What the hell is in this?” His face scrunches.

It reminds me of when he was little and he tried liver for the first time. Let’s just say that’s one protein that has stayed far off the menu since.

“Little brandy in the nog never hurt anyone.” I smirk at him. “It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

“I don’t need hair on my chest,” he grumbles. “I have it everywhere else.”

A laugh bubbles from my throat. “Congratulations.”

He continues smothering a smile, taking another sip from the glass. “This is actually really good.” His cheeks are growing pink already. “Strong.”

Grinning, I turn back to the movie, resting my head on the back of the couch. “Take it slow, killa. I don’t want you getting sick.”

“I’m sure I can handle a little brandy,” he mumbles, and when my eyes flit to him once more, half the glass is gone.

Narrowing my gaze, it’s occurring to me that Jesse is usually the forthcoming one of the two of us. He’s the one who tells me what’s going on with him, and he’s also the one who drags information out of me. I’m a closed book, but Jesse isn’t like that. He enjoys sharing, and now I feel like kind of an asshole for never asking him stuff.

It also makes me wonder about the things he hasn’t been as open about…

“You know, if you drink at parties, you can tell me.” I go for casual with my tone, focusing on the TV screen while I watch him in my peripheral. “I wouldn’t be mad. I mean, how could I? I did the same thing at your age.”