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“Bossy.” He giggles again. “I like that, too. But don’t write that down.”

“I’m writing everything down. Mentally. Forever.”

Even if he will regret every word in the morning.

He stumbles on the curb, and I scoop him closer. His hand finds the front of my shirt and stays there, fisted in the fabric and reminding me of the night we fell asleep together.

“You’re pretty,” he says again. “I know. Wrong word. I don’t care. Your mouth is my favorite experiment.”

“Jesus, Quinn.” My cock twitches in my pants, and I mentally tell it to stay down. Not the time body.

“What, it’s true.”

I get us into the building and up the stairs without letting him knock on every door we pass. He tries twice. I redirect. On our floor, he stage-whispers, “Shh. People are sleeping. I’m a respectful drunk.” Then he snorts at his own joke and leans against the wall as I unlock our door.

He goes to his bed immediately and sits on the edge, tugging off his shirt. His fingers go to the button of his jeans, and I turn away and grab a water from the fridge so I don’t stand there and stare at him stripping.

I put it in his hands. “Drink all of it.”

He drinks, makes a face, drinks again. His jeans are undone, but he hasn’t taken them off yet. “You’re taking care of me.”

“That’s what friends do.”

“I like it.”

“Cool.”

“You say cool a lot when you’re nervous.” He looks very proud of his observation. “I’ve noticed that.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Your voice went up…like with your old underwear.”

I crouch to untie his shoes because if I stay standing I’m going to kiss him in the middle of the floor, and I won’t have the excuse of tutoring to fall back on. He watches me. It feels intimate and nothing like a friend helping a friend. I get the first one off. He flexes his toes in his sock and laughs.

“That tickles. Do the other one.”

“You’re a menace. Remind me to never let you have tequila again.”

“I’m free,” he says, wonderingly. “Is this what people mean? I usually have lists in my head. Everything is quiet. There’s just you and me and your hands.”

I get the other shoe off and set them neatly near his desk, because he will care in the morning. He reaches out and pokes my cheek.

“Soft.”

I chuckle. “That’s skin, Quinn.”

“Soft for you. You’re hard everywhere. So many muscles.” He pokes again, misses, hits my mouth. His eyes go wide. “Sorry. I like that, too. I liked when you did the thumb thing. When you stopped me from biting my lip. You should do that again. Not now. Later. We can schedule it.”

I look up at him, and he’s biting his lip. I stand up before I do it now. “Lie down.”

He scoots back and flops, then frowns and sits up and takes his glasses off all by himself, folding them onto the nightstand with drunk precision that’s still more precise than most sober people. I pull the quilt out from under him. He bats at it and starts trying to wiggle out of his jeans. So I do what a friend would and help him get them off. He’s left in a pair of gray boxer briefs that I try not to look at.

“You’re tucking me in.”

“You’re horizontal. That was the assignment.”

He smiles at the ceiling, loopy and fond. “You remember my jokes.”