Grayson hardly ever got drunk. It just wasn’t her thing. Even when the two of you went out to a bar, she stuck to alcohol-free drinks—always the one dragging you home when you’d had too much. But lately, the weight of the past few weeks had settled heavily on her shoulders. She needed to forget, even if just for a little while.

So, when you two went out tonight, the roles reversed. You played the responsible one while Grayson dulled her worries with shots of pure, bare whiskey, the burn of alcohol chasing away whatever worries or responsibilities clawed at her mind.

You had always been her favorite enforcer—that much was clear. She relied on you, took you on missions, checked in on you more than she did anyone else. But she never said it outright, and lord help anyone who dared to suggest she had a soft spot for you. She’d deny it, fight it, bury it deep beneath that cold, disciplined exterior.

But alcohol had a way of loosening even the tightest grip on restraint.

Now, she was slumped over the bar, head resting against the counter as she hiccupped, her breath warm with liquor. Slowly, she lifted her head, her heavy-lidded gaze locking onto you. Then, with surprising tenderness, her fingers brushed against your cheek.

“Did I ever tell you how pretty you are?” she murmured, her words slurring together, barely stringing the sentence together.

Your eyes widened slightly.

The inner corners of her eyebrows drew in. “Gods… you’re gorgeous.” Her voice strained, so soft.

Then, before you could even react, she blurted out, “How your lips taste?” Her voice loud, asking without any damn shame.

Her eyes were lazily scanning your face, nestling on your lips. She was a bit wobbly, but the desire in her eyes was obvious.