Not drunk.
Not even close.
Just… buoyant.
Extra sparkly around the edges.
I blame the blue glitter cocktail and the fact that Miller Evans danced with me and then interlaced our fingers on purpose like some kind of menace.
I reach for my water.
Miller notices. Of course, he notices.
“Pacing yourself?” he murmurs.
I glance over. “Are you suggesting I can’t handle one festive beverage?”
“I’m suggesting your festive beverage had enough liquor in it to power farm equipment.”
“That’s fair.”
His gaze flicks briefly to my half-finished second drink—the one I definitely didnotrealize I’d acquired sometime between the patio and the table. “And I’m suggesting maybe alternate.”
I look at the water. Then at him.
“Wow. You really are weirdly bossy for a barbarian warlord.”
He picks up his own glass. “Drink your water, Khaleesi.”
I stare at him.
Then I burst out laughing.
I laugh so hard I have to set the glass down before I spill it all over the table, and MaybeMiranga smiles indulgently like she thinks we’re adorable.
Which—
Okay.
Maybe we are.
Maybe not in the polished, coordinated, Instagram-worthy way some couples are adorable, but in the “one of them is dressed like a fantasy queen and the other one looks like he could throw an enemy over a horse” way.
Honestly, that feels more authentic.
Dinner is announced and servers begin appearing with salads that are far prettier than any lettuce has a right to be. Conversation rises around us. The rest of the table settles in, with Devon sitting near Maybe Miranda, chatting with her and only occasionally sending Miller and Me skeptical looks. For a while, things are easy.
Really easy.
The kind of easy I’ve only ever had with Miller in snippets before—leaning over a bug report, sharing a joke in the office kitchen, arguing over whether dragons or aliens make better narrative devices.
But this is different.
Because now there’s no office between us.
No desks.
Noswivel chairs.
