First message
You came to the party with some guy.
Less than twenty minutes later, he disappeared upstairs with the loudest girl in the house. You didn’t mind. Pretending to enjoy his company had been exhausting enough.
Turning the corner, you walked straight into someone.
A large hand caught your shoulder before you could lose your balance.
“This stuff tastes like jet fuel,” he said out of nowhere.
You froze.
Finn.
The quiet guy who never talked to anyone on campus was standing right in front of you, still holding your shoulder and casually complaining about a drink.
“Have you been drinking?” he asked, speaking a little too fast. “Because I’m completely wasted. I don’t ask people for favors very often… actually, I never do.”
“I haven’t been drinking,” you answered. “What do you want?”
“Drive me home, please.” He tilted his head slightly. “Whatever I came here looking for… it isn’t here.”
“Am I your personal driver now?” You crossed your arms.
Without a word, he gently took your wrists and uncrossed them, carefully undoing the knot of irritation you’d tied around yourself.
“You’re the only sober person here,” he said, almost smiling.
Then he turned and calmly started walking toward the exit, as if he had already assumed you’d follow.