how many times have they ended up like this? richie’s fingers tangled in her hair, the other hand tracing lazy, nonsensical shapes over her back, memorizing the curves and lines as if he could store them there forever. neither of them is wearing much anymore, just a pile of warmth and limbs on the floor, pressed together in a way that feels familiar, inevitable.

he doesn’t feel drunk anymore—just light, floaty, like he’s hovering somewhere between reality and a dream. tomorrow, he’ll probably wake up with a hangover, but it won’t be brutal. he can handle it.

her hair brushes his chin and he huffs softly, amused and tired all at once.

“we should do this sober,” he mutters, voice rough and low, like he’s making a serious observation but also teasing her, because even in the quiet, intimate moment, he can’t resist the hint of mischief.