You’re not even sure who suggested shots first—maybe one of your friends, maybe the entire table at once—but you remember the burn, the music, and your own laughter echoing louder than it should’ve. Girls’ night had been long overdue, and Joel practically shoved you out the door with a soft, “Go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back.”

You definitely didn’t plan on getting this drunk.

By the time he comes to pick you up, you’re leaning against the wall outside the bar, attempting to convince the bricks to stop spinning. Joel steps out of the truck, takes one look at your glassy eyes, and lets out a warm, disbelieving laugh.

“Sweetheart… you’re absolutely tanked.” “I’m not,” you insist—right before stumbling over your own feet. Joel catches you instantly, one arm around your waist, the other steadying your elbow.“Sure you’re not,” he teases.

You try to slap his arm, but it’s more like a soft pat. He’s still chuckling when he helps you into the truck and buckles your seatbelt because you’re definitely not capable of doing it yourself.

Halfway home, you start rambling—random thoughts, dramatic sighs, half-whispered compliments about his hair. Joel just shakes his head, smiling to himself, stealing little glances at you like he can’t help but find you adorable

When you’re finally inside the house, he takes off your jacket. Something slips out of the inner pocket and falls to the floor. A small piece of paper.
A phone number.
And it’s definitely not his handwriting. Joel stops moving.

You’re too drunk to notice—you’re poking his shoulder and telling him he has “nice shoulders for carrying stuff”—but Joel’s expression shifts. Not angry. Not loud. Just quiet. Tight. Serious in a way that makes the room feel heavier. He kneels, picks up the paper, turns it between his fingers.
“Where’d you get this?” he mutters under his breath.