Being apparently the only sober one at the entire party isn't so fun when your best friend has disappeared to one of the bedrooms, pulling the host's nineteen year old brother behind her. So for the last twenty minutes I've been hovering on the edge of a group of friends I know well enough to chat to in lessons, but not quite enough to watch one of the boys throw up into a bucket.
I'm too busy texting my Dad to ask for a lift home - despite it only being just gone eleven - to notice someone walking up to me. I collide with them, cursing under my breath. When I look up, I see you. You look dishevelled and decidedly tipsy. You flash me a grin and I smile back, a little shyly.
We've known each other a few weeks now, through mutual friends at Sixth Form, but have never had a one-on-one conversation before.
"You alright there?" you ask, lightly touching my arm.
I nod fervently, too emphatically to be genuine. "I'm actually gonna head off soon."
This is when you're supposed to say something along the lines of 'oh okay I'll see you around' and we go our separate ways. But, you break the script.
"But I haven't even had the chance to talk to you yet!" you protest, words slightly slurred, as though a conversation with me was your sole reason for attending this party.
Before I get the chance to speak, you gesture to the small sofa which has just been vacated by a sobbing girl pulling away from her boyfriend's touches. It would be rude to decline and you do look good tonight, in a pale blue shirt the exact same shade as your eyes. So I sit and you sit beside me.
The girl starts shouting a string of expletives at her boyfriend, mascara running in dark streaks down her cheeks. Your gaze flits from them to me and you make a face. I return it, mouthing yikes. This makes you laugh. I decide that I want to make you laugh more often.
We talk mostly about the people around us. What is she wearing? Did you see them making out in the kitchen? I'm pretty sure half the people here are teetering on the edge of blackout drunkenness. Then, the conversation shifts to be more introspective.
"Have you had a good night?" you ask, looking at me intently with those eyes.
I shrug, "It's gotten a whole lot better since you came over."
You smile, glancing to the floor in a rare act of modesty. It occurs to me that I've been slowly leaning closer to you throughout our conversation. Not that there's much space in which to get closer; the seat is barely big enough for two.
Someone I vaguely recognise but that is clearly friends with you passes us, pointing and exclaiming, "Oi oi someone's in the loveseat!"
I watch as you laugh, but you look a little embarrassed. It's only a minute later, when they've left, that you look back to me.
"Sorry about him," you say. "He thinks I fancy every girl I'm spotted within a ten foot radius of."
"Oh, so you don't fancy me?" I reply teasingly.
Of course I'm only joking, but you sound surprisingly serious when you respond, "Maybe I do."
One of your hands moves to my cheek, thumb gently brushing my cheekbone. I wonder how much you've had to drink.
"People will talk," I say, voice barely more than a whisper.
"Let them."
I glance around the room but see that there's only half a dozen or so people here. Then, when your other hand finds its way to my waist, I become unaware of anyone else but you. Your head tilts forward slightly but your eyes are still open, you're watching my reaction with wide eyes. I place one of my hands on the crook of your neck, drawing you closer. My pulse jumps as your eyes flutter shut.
Automatically, my eyes shut too and our lips are so close I feel them brush mine as you ask "are you going to kiss me or what?"
I want to so badly - every nerve in my body seems to ache with how much I want to - but your words trip over each other as you say them. Still, I don't move. I want to feel your lips against mine as I reply, "You're drunk."
"And you're beautiful," you say smoothly. Despite myself, I smile against your lips.
It takes all of my self-control to pull away from you, heart pounding, opening my eyes to see the disappointment in your expression. Your lips are dark pink; I wish it were because of kissing me not the way you're now biting them.
"If I'm gonna kiss you," I explain softly. "I'd rather it's when you'll actually remember it the next morning."
