She’s pissed.

Not angry pissed—though I’ve seen plenty of that too. No, this is drunk pissed. The kind where she’s smiling a bit too much, leaning a bit too close, talking absolute shite without a care in the world.

And it’s my fucking problem.

“I love you, Johnny Kavanagh,” she declares, dramatically flinging her arms around my neck, nearly toppling us both over. “Like, so much. Yer my favorite person.”

Gibsie, the useless fuck, howls with laughter from across the table. “She’s fucked, lad.”

“Ye think?” I mutter, tightening my grip around her waist to keep her from sliding straight off my lap. “Who let her drink this much?”

Patrick raises his pint, deadpan. “You did.”

Fair enough.

I sigh, turning my attention back to the drunken menace currently tracing the line of my jaw with her finger. “You’re so pretty,” she whispers, like she’s just discovered some great universal truth.

Christ.

“I know,” I say, because I do know, but she gasps like I’ve offended her.

“Ye cocky little shite,” she huffs, poking my cheek, then promptly resting her forehead against mine like she’s exhausted by my existence. “Still love ye, though.”

I bite back a grin. “That’s a relief.”

Hughie leans over, smirking. “Ye gonna get her home, or let her profess her undying love to everyone in the pub?”

Before I can answer, she lifts her head, squinting at me. “Are ye takin’ me home?”

“Yes, baby,” I say, already moving to stand with her in my arms. “Before you start serenadin’ the whole fuckin’ place.”

She gasps, delighted. “You’re carryin’ me?”

“Yer legs are pure decoration at this point.”

That gets a giggle, and she buries her face in my neck, sighing contentedly. “Ye love me.”

I roll my eyes, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Yes, I do.”

Gibsie calls after us, still laughing. “Tell her to write a song about it!”

She perks up instantly. “OH MY GOD—”

I groan. “I fucking hate all of ye.”

But I hold her tighter, because no matter how much of a menace she is, she’s my menace.