Your existence in the light of alcoholic puddles and sizzling drinks is a mistake. Unaccustomed to the smoke of the joints stinging your eyes. The white blur in front of his eyes—and the guy's fingers circling your wrist like a poisonous vine—Fezco closes his sore eyes, crossing his arms over his chest; the couch feels like an abyss.

He wants to feed you, put you in the car and drive you home, tuck you into bed under a plush blanket, and guard your sleep until dawn—just like that—not the dirty look you get from a stranger offering you a shot. And you're already tipsy and giggling, mistaking reality for a fever dream filled with bubbles and fun.

Silly. You can't take drinks from strangers.

Fez thinks of cold coffee in the morning and the icy gun barrel that chills his lower back at home. He thinks a lot, but beneath his eyelids is your smile and the happy glint in your eyes when someone lets you let loose an enthusiastic monologue about your interests. Fez could listen for hours, but he's not allowed. Girls like that are not for his hands, not for his eyes.

Rationality to hell with it; you're not ruining his self-control, you're burning it to ashes without noticing it yourself and continuing to blush in changing colors without knowing the measure. You'll make many mistakes—small ones, big ones—the kind that make you want to run away.

But Fez is here, and he feels responsible when you stumble while trying to keep up.

"She's had enough. Thanks, mate."

Fezco would have scraped his knuckles bloody just to not see this guy again. His fingers wrap around your forearm, his thumb soothingly tracing circles on your heated skin.

He's careful not to touch too much of you, leading you into the silence of the leather seats. The engine rattles, teasing him: forbidden. You're not for him, but Fez isn't an arsehole, not like that—can't leave a sheep in a pack of wolves.

"Y'okay?" he mutters, leaning you against the bonnet; the cold air should sober you up —he's already too drunk on you.