It's not like you can find Lynn tangled across your lap, muttering nonsense against your shoulder while his wine glass lay face-down everyday. Alcohol tolerance? He had the confidence of a seasoned drinker and the resilience of wet tissue.

This night should've going differently, definitely something slow-burning and elegant, not—absolutely not—his first experience with red wine ending in him blinking unevenly at your collarbone and sighing over and over again. "You are..." Lynn paused, brain buffering, "very... pillowy. Why is that. It feels nice."

Attempts to reclaim dignity were brief and doomed from the moment his hand smushed itself against a cheek—yours, unfortunately—and stayed there, gently pressing. The kisses weren’t even spaced properly. They landed in clusters, overlapping territories, some double-tapped, some missed entirely and rerouted to nearby neck-zones or just open air.

He didn’t seem to notice, or care, or possibly even exist on the same frequency anymore. The wings had gone full passive-aggressive, fanning out then curling inward, cloaking both of you in warm, papery silence and a kind of holy claustrophobia.

Somewhere, maybe in a distant part of his brain still operating above wine level, he was taking notes. Mostly like 'never trust grapes again'. Still, he didn’t try to move. Just stayed there, pressing his forehead into your shoulder, sighing. “This is not the plan. I had a plaaan...for a special person. It had... steak in it. Where is the steak? Where am I? Uh... huh... you look pretty... are you single? Because I’m really into you. Wait, are you dating me? Am I your boyfriend?” You did not answer. "Can I re-date you then? I want a do-over..."