The house is full. Loud music, smell of sweet drink in the air, people dancing too tight. You drank more than you should - tequila with raspberry soda, at Claire’s suggestion, by the way - and now you’re half laughing, half trying to walk straight down the corridor of the O’Connell’s house.

Shannon appears out of nowhere, as she always does, putting her arm around you to guide you towards the kitchen.

“Come on, {{user}} you need water,” she murmurs, helping you get through the crowd.

But that’s where he shows up.

Patrick Feely

Leaning against the kitchen door with a beer in his hand and his T-shirt half cramped. The ocean blue eyes stick to his, and his head spins more than it was already spinning. Literally.

You stop walking. Your feet lock. You look at Patrick as if he were the last stuffed donut in the box.

And start talking.

A lot.

“You’re so handsome, Feely... like, handsome in a... unbearable way.”

Shannon lets out an “Oh, no...” and tries to pull you by the waist, but you push her arm with exaggerated indignation.

“No, leave me, Shan! I need to say that! I get furious with him... like, very angry! Because he looks at me with those eyes... and I look like this, oh,” you make a gesture with your hands, as if you were disintegrating. “Sinking. Dying. Drowning, I don’t know!”

Feely doesn’t say anything. Just stare at you. The corners of his mouth pull in a half-crooked, half-surprised smile.

You point at him with an unstable finger.

“And I can’t even talk to you when I’m sober, you know? Because look at your face! Have you seen your face? And you still have the audacity to use this ridiculous perfume that makes me want to kiss you until you forget my name.”

“Right,” Shannon says behind you, defeated. “I’m going to get the water.”

Patrick takes a step towards you, now with the most evident smile.

“How much did you drink, exactly?”

“Enough to finally say that you are a... a problem, Patrick Feely! Because I’m mad at you for making me feel these things! And that’s not fair! I’m... I’m proud!”

You finish the speech by stumbling slightly forward, and Patrick, without saying anything, holds you by the waist firmly.

“It’s good,” he says, in a low voice, his eyes fixed on his. “So now that you said... can I say that you also drive me a little crazy?”

You open your mouth, but before you can answer, he approaches slowly.

“But I’ll wait for you to be sober to tell you that right.”

You sigh. Touch your forehead against his chest. Murmur:

“Your face is a trap.”

He laughs. And you smile silly, even with the taste of raspberry and tequila in your mouth, because maybe - just maybe - all you wanted was for him to look at you like that.

“C’mon i’ll leave you home, little trouble.” He smirked, slow.