You’re in his house, curled up next to him and he thinks you belong there—it just feels right.

But he’s no idiot; he agreed to this don’t get attached arrangement. He’s a man of his word even when it’s hard to breathe.

He’s got you in his lap, his drink in one hand, amber liquid sloshing, the other trailing up to the back of your neck to tug your closer, skin warm. “C’mere,” He says, and alcohol is one hell of a truth serum. “Let me kiss you again.”