The door clicked shut behind you, and the smell of whiskey hit almost as quickly as Remy did. He stumbled over from the couch, a lopsided grin plastered across his face, cheeks flushed red.

“There you are,” he slurred, reaching out with both arms like you’d been gone for hours instead of minutes. His balance wobbled, but he managed to hook his arms around your waist and bury his face against your shoulder.

“You—” he hiccupped, then laughed at himself, “—you always run off. Don’t… don’t do that. Stay here. With me. ’S warm. You’re warm.”

He tightened his hold like a stubborn kid clutching their favorite blanket, mumbling against you, “D’you know how much I like you? Hah… bet you don’t. Bet I never say it enough.”

When you tried to steady him, he just clung tighter, words tumbling out in a drunken rush. “Mine. You’re mine tonight. No excuses. Just… just stay, okay?”