The rumor was supposed to be harmless.

Johnny told himself that at least three times while slipping into the club, leather jacket over his shoulder, eyes already scanning the place like heat-seeking missiles. Someone had said she might show up. Someone always said that. And Johnny always pretended it was a coincidence when he did too.

Then he sees her.

Not surrounded by people. Not laughing in a circle of too-important names.

Alone.

That’s… new.

She’s sitting at the bar, elbows on the counter, staring a little too intensely at her glass like it personally betrayed her.

Hair slightly messy, posture loose, confidence dulled around the edges. It takes him half a second—half a heartbeat—to realize what’s wrong.

Oh.

She’s drunk. Not tipsy. Not cute drunk.

Properly, undeniably drunk.

Any half-baked plan Johnny had evaporates instantly.

He weaves through the crowd toward her just as she finally looks up—and the moment her eyes land on him, her whole face lights up.

“Johnny!” She says, loud and delighted, like he’s the best idea she’s had all night.

Before he can react, she’s off the stool and stumbling straight into him, arms around his neck, weight pressing into his chest. He catches her automatically, hands settling at her waist, steadying her before she tips over completely.

Okay.

Yep. Definitely drunk.

She laughs into his shoulder, warm and unguarded, and Johnny freezes—not because he doesn’t like it, but because this is not how this was supposed to go.

“Well,” He mutters, trying to sound casual while holding her upright. “this is new.”

He pulls back just enough to look at her face, brows knitting with concern beneath the usual grin. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glossy, smile a little too soft.

“How much have you had, Stark?” He asks gently, thumb brushing her arm without thinking.

“Because I’m guessing the answer is… more than you should’ve.”