𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

after the party.

When I walk back inside, I'm almost sad that the Boy is awake, since I enjoyed the voyeurism so much. Pausing in the doorway means that it's impossible to breeze past with a glance and pretend I've barely noticed; now I have to say something.

'Morning.'

'Morning,' he repeats back, blearily. He sounds worse for wear, but who wouldn't, after last night? 'Not sure anyone is supposed to look that bright-eyed after a party.'

'I know,' I reply. 'I don't think I properly enjoyed myself.'

'That's terrible,' he grins wryly, and uncrosses his legs, pulling his jacket onto his lap and facing me properly. A glossy ringlet of black hair falls over his forehead and he sweeps it back reflexively. The overall effect is quite charming. I busy myself with inspecting the glasses left on the sideboard, checking if any can be easily rinsed so I can drink some water.

'I'm rubbish at that sort of decadence. You go too far and chuck up in a bush, and then you wish you were somewhere else for the rest of the night.'

'Chucking up in a bush is usually just the start.'

'Yuck.' I turn my head a little, catching his eye when I laugh and purposely turning back a beat too late to be casual.

He gets to his feet, holding a clean glass. 'This what you're looking for? It was on the table.'

'Thanks,' I pour it full of water and drink, quickly and unselfconsciously.

'May I?' He holds a hand out (skinny wrist and elegant fingers, I note) and I expect him to refill the glass, but he drinks the rest of mine before doing so. It seems an oddly intimate thing to do, and I begin to wonder if he is flirting. An odd time, I think, since most people hook up in the dead of night. But I'm not complaining - far from it.

'I don't remember seeing you last night,' he comments.

'Oh dear... is that a good or a bad thing?'

'Just a shame.' Definitely flirting. He hands the glass back to me, full again.

'Are you hungover?'

'A little.'

I grin, locating a gin bottle that contains enough remains for a shot or two. 'Hair of the dog, isn't that what they call it?' I wrench the freezer door open, snapping a shard of ice off the block that sits in the top drawer. 'Are there any mixers?'

'Now? I doubt it.' The Boy insouciantly tosses a lemon from hand to hand, one that he has snatched from the fruit bowl. 'Ugh... I haven't chucked up yet, but this might just do it for me.'

'No harm done.' I clean a knife in the sink and cut the lemon in half, squeezing all the juice into the glass on top of the gin and ice. The sour taste is enough to mask the way that the spirit catches in the throat; I cough anyway. He shares it, and I watch him bring the glass to his lips, pulling a silly face as if to say this is atrocious, but what the hell . 'Practically a martini?'

'Ian Fleming would roll in his grave.'

'But it's kind of good, right?'

'I can't believe it, but yes, it's pretty good.'

'Finish it then.' I thrust the glass towards his chest, and he grimaces.

'I'm going to regret this...'

But he does finish it, and I watch carefully as he tips his head to catch the last drops, his pale throat convulsing. I am struck with a mental image of pressing my mouth against it, summoning an expression of ecstasy on his face.