You’re drunk, not blackout drunk, but definitely past tipsy. The music from the party still hums faintly in the distance as you stumble along a road that hasn’t seen a car in at least twenty minutes. Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, your feet aching, your head spinning, but you’re giggling like everything’s hilarious.

You’re about thirty minutes down the dark road when you hear the sound of a car approaching. Headlights cut through the darkness, and without thinking, you stick your thumb out, waving it vaguely in the air. The risks don’t even cross your mind, you’re too far gone for that.

The car rolls to a stop beside you, and the window lowers.

“Hey,” the guy behind the wheel says. “You okay?”

You giggle, swaying slightly. “Just a little drunk,” you answer, as if it explains everything.

The guy steps out of the car and walks around to you, his face shadowed but kind. “It’s not safe to be out here alone, especially not like this… and in that dress.”

You ignore the concern. “What’s your name?” you ask, peering up at him. “You look like… a William.”

He snorts. “Close. It’s Drew.”

You take a wobbly step forward, and he instinctively catches you. Your hands land on his arms and your eyes widen. “Whoa,” you breathe, squeezing gently. “They’re huuuuge.”

“What?” he laughs, steadying you.

“Your arms,” you say, giving his biceps a dramatic squeeze. “Are these legal? Can I have them?”

He laughs. “Okay, that’s enough.” He guides you to the passenger seat like you’re a toddler who just learned to walk. “I’m driving you home.”

You rattle off your address without even thinking.

As he pulls back onto the road, you turn to him with the kind of intensity only someone truly drunk can achieve.

“I think you should name them.”

He glances over, confused. “Name what?”

You point dramatically at his arms. “Your biceps. They need names. Big ones.”

He humors you. “Like what?”

You nod, very serious. “Tom and Jerry.”

He chokes on a laugh focusing on the road again. “That’s what you’re going with?”