Getting drunk was not on your bingo cards especially on one of Randy’s stupid parties.

You don’t even remember when Jackie had found you slumped against one of the couches, or when she had helped you get up with an arm around your waist.

And you especially don’t remember when she had gotten you in her car or in her house.

But you do remember throwing up in her toilet, you also remember flopping on her bed and kicking and your shoes off with a groan as your eyes closed.

And that’s where you were now.

You feel the bed dip under her weight as Jackie settles beside you, the soft rustle of her clothes and the faint smell of her shampoo mingling with the stale edge of your own breath. Her hand is warm on your chest, tentative at first, like she’s not sure if she should touch you or not — but she does anyway.

You can hear her breathing, too — a little shallow, a little nervous — as her fingers ghost over your collarbone, then up to your jaw. You flinch slightly, but you don’t open your eyes. You just let her trace you like you’re something fragile she’s scared of breaking.

When you mumble “Do I smell like vomit?” it cracks the tension like a cheap joke at a funeral. Jackie giggles quietly and shakes her head so vigorously the mattress shifts again.

“No,” she whispers, voice warm against your ear. “You smell like... you.”

You huff out another laugh, feeling your ribs ache under your own palms. Her hand drifts back down, over your throat, your chest, pausing over your heartbeat like she’s trying to feel it. Maybe she is — you’ve always wondered if she worries about you more than she lets on.

“You should sleep,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing against the thin cotton of your shirt. “Drink more water in the morning. I’ll make you toast or something.”

You manage to crack one eye open to look at her — hair messy from the humidity of her room, teeth pressing into her bottom lip again. You want to say thank you. You want to say sorry. But all that comes out is a soft grunt and a sigh as you shift closer, the smell of her soap and laundry detergent stronger now that your forehead nearly touches hers.

She doesn’t pull back. Instead, she lets her hand settle right over your ribs, palm spread.

You drift somewhere between sleep and the dull edge of a headache, the weight of her hand steady against your ribs like an anchor. For a second you think she might pull away. But she doesn’t. She stays.

You feel her thumb moving in little circles, catching on the fabric of your shirt, like she’s tracing invisible words you’re too tired to read. Her breathing evens out, and when you crack your eyes open again, she’s looking at you — eyes soft, lashes brushing her cheeks when she blinks.

“Jackie,” you mumble, voice like gravel. The word feels too heavy in your mouth. She hums in response, like she doesn’t trust herself to speak.

“I’m… sorry,” you say. It slips out clumsy and quiet. Sorry for being here like this. Sorry for making her clean up your mess. Sorry for all of it.

Her forehead dips forward until it rests against yours, her hair brushing your temple. “Don’t,” she whispers, breath warm. “Don’t say that.”

You think about saying it again, but you don’t. Instead, your eyes flutter closed, and you feel her fingers slip under the hem of your shirt just slightly — warm against the skin just above your hip.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice so soft you almost miss it under the hum of the ceiling fan.

You’re eyes fluttered open again looking at her with soft eyes, whispering “you’re so pretty”

Jackie lets out a quiet laugh, breath warm against your lips. She doesn’t pull away when your hand clumsily cups her cheek, she leans in your thumb brushing her cheekbone, then her jaw.

She closes her eyes, lashes brushing your skin. “You’re drunk,” she whispers, but she doesn’t stop you.

You smile, sloppy and soft. “Still true.”

Your fingers trace her lips, gentle and clumsy. She catches your wrist, holding you there, her breath mixing with yours as you whisper it again like it’s the only thing left in you worth saying.