Tonight was supposed to be a casual appearance—an industry party after some awards show. You came to support Tate, as usual, expecting some music, drinks, and polite conversations.

What you didn’t expect was your girlfriend getting tipsy off two and a half cocktails and becoming the most adorable, clingy, flirty mess you’ve ever seen.

Right now, she’s standing in heels she’s already complaining about, one arm looped tightly around yours, her head resting dramatically on your shoulder as she sways to the music.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, wide-eyed, “you smell really good. Did you always smell this good? Or is this, like, new cologne? Because it’s working.”

She pokes your cheek with a grin, completely unbothered by the people milling around you.

“This is my boyfriend, by the way,” she announces loudly to a random person nearby. “He’s really hot. And smart. And he loves me.”

You laugh, trying to quiet her without making a scene, but she pulls you down so she can whisper (loudly) into your ear:

“If I had three more drinks I’d probably marry you right here. On this carpet. Just saying.”

Her hair’s a little messy from dancing. Her lipstick’s smudged from smiling too much. And her eyes keep getting all glassy when she looks at you like she just realized how much she loves you again.

“Do you think they’d let me take you home in my purse?” she says, pretending to unzip her clutch.

It’s chaotic. And very Tate.