ASTRID

The table was loud with laughter, glasses clinking, music pulsing faintly from outside the VIP area. Art sat beside me, sleeves rolled up, but his hand kept on finding shot glasses. One after another, he downed them without flinching, jaw tight, throat working with every swallow. His friends cheered him on, and I cheered too, matching him shot for shot, though I know I’m nowhere near his level.

I laughed as we drank, now dizzy as ever. “You’re insane,” I told him, nudging his arm as he sets another empty glass down. “How are you still sober?”

He only smirked, leaning back like it’s nothing, and lets the conversation around us consume the moment. He’s really insane for all those shots. He’s really on another level if you ask me.

But after a while, I noticed it. His hand is tipped a shot subtly into the ice bucket when no one’s watching. Huh? Wait a minute…

“Wait. What are you doing?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re not actually drinking all of those, are you?”

His forehead creased as if I just accused him of a crime. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice a little slurred, like he’s just as drunk as me.

”You!” I pointed a finger at him. “You’re not drinking. You’re just acting!”

“I’m drinking,” he said, showing me his glass. “I’m as dizzy as you.”

“Dizzy,” I mocked. “You should be the one applying to StarQuest Entertainment. You’d be their best actor.”

He chuckled, now shaking his head. “Best actor? Really?” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice like he’s telling me a secret. “Love, I’m drinking. Look at all these glasses that made me drunk. They’re all hard liquor. It’s not like yours—a ladies’ drink.”

“Yours are fake shots!” I countered.

“Fake?” he echoed, looking offended. “I think you’re just too drunk to accept that I have high alcohol tolerance.”

I blinked at him, struggling to focus. The room spun and spun even more. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am too drunk. My conviction wavered, slipping away with every slow blink of his lashes and the steady warmth of his arm brushing against mine.

“Ugh! Whatever!” I groaned, sinking back into the couch. “Maybe I am…”

Art only smiled faintly, tucking me closer against his side as the others laughed around us. And just like that, I let it go, convinced it’s just me seeing things. But I really swear I saw him pouring multiple shots into the ice bucket.

The room felt lighter now, less crowded as some started to leave, but it still buzzed with energy. I was half in his lap at that point, laughing at nothing and everything, while Art leaned back, one arm draped lazily around me. He wasn’t drunk, not really. I could tell because his eyes were still sharp, his voice still steady. But there was a looseness to him I rarely got to see. The top button of his polo was open, like he had finally let the night get to him a little.

I poked his chest, squinting up at him. “You’re not really drunk. Admit it.”

He smirked, tilting his head. “I told you, I am drunk.”

“My head hurts. I’m so confused.” I whined, leaning into him harder, nearly spilling my drink onto the couch. “You’re a… what’s the word…” I snapped my fingers, failing miserably, “Maniac.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, amused. “That’s not the word you’re looking for.”

“Yes it is,” I argued, wagging my finger at him before it dropped onto his thigh. “A very unfair, very sexy liar.”

“Make up your mind. A drinking maniac or a cheater?” he asked, giving me a quick kiss on my temple.

“I didn’t say cheater! So you’re really cheating with your drinks, huh?” I accused.

He laughed this time. It’s the kind that makes my stomach flip and my heart flutter. Then someone shouted, “Astrid’s gone!” and the table bursts with laughter. How dare them? They’re just as drunk as I am!

“Gone but honest!” I shouted back, grinning, before collapsing into Art’s side again. “See? Even they know when someone’s really drunk. You! You are not close to being drunk!”

Art just shook his head, slipping his glass away and tucking me closer. He doesn’t look embarrassed about how I acted, not even a little. It’s like he’s secretly enjoying every second of my messy self clinging to him. But he’s really messing with my head right now. Is he drunk or not?

“I am Astrid Estelle Mercer-Young! Yes, Young! Art and I…“ I declared, my fingers caressing his chest down to his abdomen.

“Careful,” he murmured, leaning down so only I hear, his breath warm against my ear. “Keep touching me like that and they’ll think you’re trying to start something.”

I gasped, a little offended and scandalized, but then it dissolved into giggles. I am too drunk to even come up with a comeback.

He just smiled at me boyishly while I am still caught between the idea of him really, really drunk or just really, really good at pretending. My head hurts just by thinking about it. Freaking hell.

“I need to pee. Like, right now or I will explode,” I announced, clutching his arm. Art immediately sets his glass down and stood up, already steadying my not-so-steady world. It’s steady enough for my liking. I just enjoy being this dizzy. Just like what I said earlier, I just wanted my world to spin, my vision to blur!

“Alright, come on. I’ll help you before it turns into a real emergency,” he teased.

I nudged his chest weakly. “Don’t joke about it. I’m serious about my bladder exploding.”

He just laughed again, guiding me through the crowd with his hand firm at my waist. He’s walking too smoothly. Huh… way too smoothly. My eyes narrowed even as I stumbled against him. “Wait a second.”

“What now, love?” he asked, his tone innocent.

I squinted at him. I’m really, really, really not sure if he’s drunk or not.

“You’re…” I started, then groaned right after. “I want to vomit,” I said. “But I’m not at the vomiting phase right now, so I need to stick a finger in.”

Then we kept walking and walking and walking and walking. It feels like forever!

The walk to the bathroom was pure chaos. Well, maybe I’m chaos. Art is just… Art. He’s steady, even with my weight draped against him, though his laugh is looser now, his grip not as sharp as usual. He also has drunk blush! He’s really confusing me. Every few steps, I peeked up at him, squinting a little.

“You’re drunk,” I declared, pointing an accusing finger that wobbles in the air.

“Am I?” he asked in his softest voice, the kind that makes me fall in love over and over again. I do, father!

“Yes.” I nodded, convinced, before immediately backtracking. “No. Maybe!” My brows furrowed as I stared at him, trying to catch something… anything! But he’s maddeningly sane, only the flush on his cheeks betraying anything. “Ugh. You’re hard to read.”

He smirked, the kind that tells me he’s enjoying my confusion way too much. “You sound pretty convinced.”

“I’m not convinced hundred percent, that’s the problem!” I declared, making him more and more amused.

By the time he pushed us into the VIP bathroom and clicked the lock, I’m spinning with laughter and frustration. It’s so spacious and clean I could live here forever. Never mind the lot Art bought for us! It even has another door inside for the cubicle.

I barely made it to the sink, bracing myself against the counter, still eyeing him like I can read his blood alcohol level just by staring hard enough.

“You drank so much,” I mumbled at our reflection in the mirror, “and you’re still standing like nothing. That’s either talent or…” I narrowed my eyes on him. “...faking.”

Art leaned against the door casually, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other pushing back his already disheveled hair. “Or maybe I just know when to stop.”

I glared at him, pointing again. “See? Ha! Exposed! That’s too reasonable. Drunk people aren’t reasonable.”

“Just like you right now,” he shot back, voice calm, but there’s this playful curve in his lips that makes me want to kiss him and smack his head all at once.

“I am drunk!” I said proudly. My chest rose and fell from laughing and from the way he’s looking at me. “So what are you then? Drunk or not? Tell me the truth or else!”

He pushed off the cubicle door slowly, walking toward me with a pace that makes my knees weak. By the time he’s in front of me, his hand is already at my waist, his breath warm when he dips down to murmur, “Why don’t you find out?”

I barely had time to process whether he was drunk or sober. My gaze instantly drifted from his loving eyes to his kissable, pink lips as he smiled at me. Oh my gosh, is this all mine? He’s so pretty!

And before I can come up with another accusation, my lips decided for me. I kissed him torridly.

The kiss was raw and reckless—not careful, not gentle. It was deep, messy, and he matched me with the same hunger. For a moment, I swore I tasted every drop of liquor on his tongue—sweet, burning, maddening. My fingers clutched his polo, dragging him closer, desperate to know if the looseness in his body came from the alcohol or from finally breaking his own restraint. His tongue tangled with mine, relentless, and the rush was intoxicating. It felt so real, so consuming, I almost forgot to breathe.

I broke the kiss, panting, my forehead pressed against his collar. “You’re drunk,” I whispered, dizzy yet satisfied.

He tilted my chin up, smirking faintly, his eyes still too sharp for a man who should be gone by now. “I am drunk.”

“I like making out with you,” I declared proudly. “But I really need to pee,” I added, gesturing with my fingers to show him how close my bladder is to exploding.

I leaned against the marble tiles as he steadied me. I noticed him wiping the toilet seat and placing tissue papers on it. I raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing? Gosh. You’re not environmentally friendly!”

“We’re not sure how clean it is, and you can’t squat in your state,” he said as he helped me stand straight. ”Just sit down, love.”

I wanted to argue, but the way he held me, firm and patient, made the words catch in my throat. Instead, I let him guide me down, his palm brushing the back of my thigh with such unbothered care that it makes my skin tingle and burn.

“You’re so right and so bossy,” I muttered, cheeks heating as I finally sit. Then I waved at him like I’m shooing away someone uninvited. “Okay, that’s it. Out. Shoo! No peeking. Just because we have sex almost every other day doesn’t mean you get a lifetime subscription to every bathroom performance I do. I’m really shy, you know?”

He laughed, shaking his head like I’ve lost it. “You’re shy at this rate?”

“Yes. Shy Estelle!” I snapped, cheeks flaming as I gave him another push for emphasis. “Go now!”

He held his hands up in surrender but stayed close enough to steady me, crouching a little so his hand rests firmly on my knee. “Relax. I’m not looking. I’m just making sure you don’t make a mess.”

“Disgusting! What do you think of me?” I hissed, though I’m laughing under my breath, the ridiculousness of it cutting right through the drunken haze.

Still, even with the teasing, his touch is steady, his presence unwavering. “And you’re reckless,” he countered smoothly, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ll have your very own alcohol limit next time.”

I gave him a glare that’s supposed to be sharp but probably lands closer to helplessness. He only smiled at it. And for a moment, I forget how absurd this all is. Drunk or not drunk, I love this man! With. All. My. Heart.

When I finished, he helped me back up, not even flinching at how much I leaned on him. His hand never left my waist, thumb brushing against my side in circles that felt far too deliberate.

"You’re taking care of me," I murmured, both in awe and disbelief. "I think you like me!" I accused, squinting at him.

"I love you," he replied simply. He didn’t even blink or flinch.

"Ah, don’t say that!" I shouted. "You’re making me blush… and cry," I said as I felt my eyes start to water.

"Love," he said, his eyes looked like he was genuinely concerned. "Why are you crying?" he asked worriedly, then began laughing.

"It’s because… I’ve never felt this kind of love before! And why did you have to say that so casually?"

"How should I say it then?" he asked, playing along.

"Maybe another PowerPoint!"

I wasn’t sure, but I think it took him a solid five minutes before he finally stopped me from crying. "Better?" he asked as he hugged me. I nodded and sniffed. I looked at him and my eyeliner and lipstick already smudged his polo. I tried to wipe it with my fingers, but it only made it worse.

He didn’t complain or say anything after that. He just guided me to the sink, nudging me forward when I swayed a little. I turned on the faucet, splashing water onto my hands, but before I could reach for the dryer, he lifted me like I weighed nothing and sat me right on the counter.

“Hey!” I gasped, blinking at him, but he was already pulling a few tissues from the dispenser.

“You’ll drip everywhere,” he said casually, catching my wrists and gently patting my wet hands dry. His concentration was almost out of this world, as if wiping my hands was a mission that required his entire being.

I stared at him—at the way his brows furrowed slightly, at the way his fingers lingered against mine. And before I even thought about it, my arms slid around his nape, locking tight.

He stilled, tissues forgotten, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. The silence that followed nearly swallowed me whole.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice suddenly rough.

“Like what?” I whispered, smiling faintly because I already knew.

“Like you want me to ruin you,” he said, voice low, words threading heat through my veins.

“Why not?” I pouted, leaning closer, my arms tightening around his neck. The faintest brush of my lips ghosted his jaw, teasing, begging for him to break first.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but his hands stayed steady, still cradling mine in tissues like he refused to let go. “Because you’re drunk,” he murmured, though the strain in his tone betrayed him.

“Aren’t you also drunk?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

“I’m not,” he confessed, holding my gaze with sharp clarity. “I stopped drinking the moment I felt the alcohol was hitting me.”

I knew it!

“Best actor,” I scoffed, tilting my chin in defiance, though my pout gave me away. He smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They lingered on me instead, as if memorizing me in this state. “I’m more than willing to get drunk if it’s just you and me in our house,” he said. “At least there, I’m sure you’re safe.”

He leaned closer to my ear and whispered, “I could easily ruin you there like you want me to.” Then he stared at me, and my lips parted instantly.

How could he say that without blinking?

With those words alone, my brain went warm and fuzzy. It felt so dangerous. Juno by Sabrina Carpenter started playing in my head, low and teasing, like the soundtrack to multiple positions I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. And then suddenly, there he was in my mind, leaning in close… his lips tracing my neck, tongue brushing away the salt from that body shot earlier. Freaking hell, why does that feel like it’s still there? The heat of his breath lingered, crawling down my skin like a slow burn.

Our breaths tangled, lips close enough that one wrong move could close the gap. By the way he looked at me, it seemed like his restraints were also gone. His grip tightened at my waist, my fingers curled deeper into the nape of his neck, and for a moment the world was nothing but the magnetic pull between us. It was so close, so unbearable.

And then… a knock.

We both froze.

The sharp sound echoed in the bathroom, shattering the moment we had built. My eyes widened, his jaw clenched, and neither of us moved, caught between laughter and embarrassment.

“Occupied,” he said finally. I noticed him blink a few times as if he was regaining consciousness.

I bit back a laugh, hiding my face against his shoulder, though my lips still brushed his skin. He exhaled slowly, like he was seconds away from losing all his restraint again, his hand at my waist gripping tighter.

“Let’s get you out before you make me a sinner for taking advantage of drunk Estelle,” he muttered, his voice rough with restraint.

“But I want you to!” I blurted, my pout deepening, arms refusing to leave his neck.

He let out a low groan before finally lifting me down from the counter and almost carrying me toward the door. His arm stayed firmly around my waist, practically holding me up as I leaned heavily against him.

When he swung the door open, I blinked at the sight of the line of other VIPs waiting outside. Their eyes widened immediately. Some curious, some amused.

Without thinking, I threw my hand up dramatically. “We didn’t have sex, don’t worry! It’s all clean!”

Gasps. A stifled laugh. One woman covered her mouth while another man grinned.

Beside me, he groaned under his breath, dragging a palm down his face as if the ground might open up and save him from me. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, tugging me closer to shield me from their stares, but his ears burned red.

When we came back to our booth, the bar lights were a blur of neon and white. Laughter spilling out of me in bursts that didn’t even sound like me anymore. Chase had pulled me, demanding a duet, and I instantly gave in. My voice wasn’t steady, but I sang anyway, too drunk to care. Art stood at the edge, watching, though I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or genuine concern.

Shots blurred into cocktails. Cocktails blurred into more songs. I remembered leaning on Chase’s shoulder while we sang off-key. I also remembered Art’s hand at the small of my back, steadying me when the night tilted sideways.

After that, everything blurred. More and more glasses clinked, my body twirled on the dance floor, and when Art left to get me water, the night shifted.

That’s when Miguel appeared. He stumbled through an apology to Chase for missing the party, muttering about a gift. But then his eyes landed on me, and I burst into laughter once more.

“Cheesecake guy!” I shouted, far too loud. I pointed a finger his way and leaned against Chase. “My co-worker. The one who has a crush on me.” I said it proudly, like it was something to brag about.

I blinked and suddenly, I wasn’t at the bar anymore. My head leaned against a shoulder, words slurring out of me as I tried to explain myself to someone that I need to go home.

I remembered the hotel lobby. My heels clicked unevenly on the marble as I clung to the arm beside me. “Wait. Stop. I can’t. I’m engaged,” I mumbled, holding up my hand to show the promise ring Art gave me.

The blurry man chuckled low, the sound tugging at something deep in my chest. “That’s not an engagement ring.”

“Yes, it is,” I insisted, swaying. My tongue felt heavy, my words messy. “He gave it to me. It means something.”

“Then why am I here with you?” he asked quietly, leaning close, his breath brushing my lips. My vision betrayed me—his face splitting into two, then one, then two again. For one terrifying second, I didn’t know who I was looking at.

“Love?” I whispered, the name breaking fragile from my lips.

His gaze darkened. Not angry, worse. Disappointed. His thumb brushed my cheek, gentle, almost fond. “You’re not sure,” he murmured.

“Do you even know me?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“Do you know me?” he countered, tone gentle but firm, almost scolding me for doubting.

I blinked, the answer forming on my lips before I could think. “Love.”

His jaw tightened, and though his gaze held me steady, I could feel the hesitation lingering between us like he wasn’t entirely sure if I meant it, or if I was only clinging to what I wanted to believe.

“Leave me alone if you’re not my husband.” I shut my eyes.

“You’re not married yet,” he countered. ”So why would I leave you alone, hmm?”

“Still…” I weakly said. ”Leave me alone.”

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he guided me further inside the hotel room.

I completely lost sense of it all. His mouth closed over mine. I didn’t know who started it, only that I kissed him back. I tried not to, I swear I did, but my body betrayed me because I was chasing the familiarity of his lips. The kiss was steady, coaxing. Too familiar to be a mistake but also too blurred to entirely get lost into it.

When the room tipped and the mattress caught my back, I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Only the weight of him above me, the certainty of his lips, the careful way his hands moved across my face.

Later, as sleep threatened to take me, I felt his mouth against my jaw, softer than it had any right to be. After that, I felt him remove my makeup with utmost gentleness. Then the cool air brushed my skin as he lifted the hem of my dress. My drunken mind jolted awake, panic surged. Until I realized he was only pulling a shirt over my arms, slow and patient, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Art? Love?” I whispered, breathless. I was too weak to even push him. I couldn’t even open my eyes to see him clearly.

A pause, just a second too long. Then, “Sleep,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. It was gentle, but it was also void of the warmth that always curled in his voice.

No stranger would stop here. So it had to be Art.

But then, why weren’t we at home? Why were we in a hotel room?