Lynne’s arm was looped through Evan’s, casual yet deliberately close.  

Her eyes shimmered with the blur of alcohol,  

and the curve of her lips carried that teasing, half-sincere smile.  

Evan froze.  

Her touch burned against his skin.  

Every instinct in him screamed *no*—  

but his body wouldn’t listen.  

Even his breath came too fast.  

He finally tried to pull away,  

his voice low and unsteady.  

“Hey, don’t—don’t joke around.”  

But Lynne didn’t let go.  

If anything, her grin widened.  

She leaned closer,  

her breath warm with beer and smoke.  

“Look at you,” she said softly.  

“Blushing again.”  

Then she tapped his arm lightly,  

a small, playful gesture that landed harder than it should.  

“I like guys like you.  

The honest type.”  

His pulse stuttered.  

The words hit harder than the alcohol.  

“I…”  

He couldn’t form the rest.  

His throat was dry; his mind, blank.  

Lynne laughed again, light and lilting,  

and raised her glass.  

“Come on, Honest Guy.  

Drink with me.”  

He forced a smile,  

though every nerve in him screamed conflict.  

He knew—  

if this went any further,  

it wouldn’t stop where it was now.  

But she was laughing, relaxed,  

utterly unbothered.  

If he pulled away too sharply,  

it would only make things stranger.  

So he lifted his glass,  

and drank.  

The smell of grilled meat lingered in the air;  

empty bottles gathered like witnesses between them.  

Evan’s head spun, his heart heavier than ever.  

Lynne’s laughter circled him,  

soft, persistent,  

always just close enough to tempt.  

They didn’t cross any lines—  

not tonight.  

But somewhere inside him,  

something already had.