Page 125 of Chaos

Until eventually, he blurts, “It’s your fault I’m drunk.”

Despite the nature of the accusation, I can’t help but be amused. “Oh, really?”

He hums. “Too many compliments.”

My amusement ebbs, confusion replacing it. “What?”

“Wanted to tell you. Drank tequila instead.” He shifts to face me more, his cheek pressed against the headrest. His fingers, curled around the edge of my seat. His eyes, steadfastly locked on me. “Didn’t work. Still wanna tell you.”

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. God, how badly I want to hear these illustrious compliments. But it’s just like the other night. He’s drunk. Anything he says, I don’t have the heart to believe. “Tell me when you’re sober.”

The picture of determination, Finn nods.

“If,” I quip, I try to lighten the mood. “You remember.”

“I’ll remember,” Finn insists, still nodding, still so serious, but suddenly also amused. Like he thinks it’s hilarious that I would even suggest such a thing, and I feel like a block of ice faced with a Finn-shaped chisel that won’t stop tap, tap, tapping away at my defenses.

When I pull up outside the A-frame, I practically throw myself out of the car. Finn does too except he doesn’tthrowso much as hefalls, he’s all loose limbs and intoxication as he stumbles to the house. I hustle after him, catching up right as he trips on the porch steps, swearing beneath my breath while he laughs, palms braced against the wood, forearms straining as he pushes himself upright again.

Ortriesto, at least.

“Alright, big guy.” Grabbing one big bicep with both hands, I shift my weight backwards andheave. By some miracle, Finn rises, wobbling his way to the front door while I try not to buckle under his weight. “Lean on me, yeah?”

Out pops that pout again, and now I have to keep myself from hitting the deck too. “But you’re little.”

“I am notlittle.”

The fucker pats the top of my head. “Littler than me.”

Like that’s hard. “Yeah, well, so is fuckin’ Clyde. Move it.”

In his defense, Finn makes it up the stairs mostly by himself.

Really, I’m not convinced he actually needs my help. Like, at all. I kind of think he’s only leaning on me because I’m there. Because I offered.

Because he wants to.

Whatever the case, he stumbles into his bedroom and drags me across the threshold too with the heavy arm still slung across my shoulders.

I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m eager. I swear, my ears perk up like a dog’s, my invisible tail wagging as I get the chance to snoop, and I don’t even feel bad about it. Why would I? He lived in my old bedroom for months. He’s been in my current bedroom more than once. I’m just returning the favor. And honestly, I don’t think he minds—when I slip out of his grip, I don’t think he whines because he’s mad I make a beeline for his dresser.

“Y’know,” I muse as my gaze roams over the assortment of wooden figurines scattered across the surface—scattered across a lot of surfaces in here. “I almost thought you were bullshitting about the whittling thing.”

Even though the literal proof of his honesty lives on my bedside table, I just couldn’t picture Finn—big, strong Finn—spending his days hunched over a tiny hunk of wood, working it into something beautiful. Something dainty. Something as incredibly detailed as the horse figurine I swear looks just like Ruin. “I like this one.”

“Knew you would,” Finn replies.

Which is pretty cryptic. Definitely worthy of an explanation. But I don’t ask for one. Iforgetto ask for one because I glance over my shoulder, and I find Finn fiddling with his tie, clumsily unknotting it before tossing it away. I track his hands as they remove his collar pins before dropping to his waistband, as they undo the top button of his slacks and untuck his shirt, and it’s as he starts to slide the small buttons free that I clear my throatpointedly. Because as much as I would love a strip show, I should probably take that as my cue to leave.

A cue I follow, but Finn does not.

“Wait.”

Against my better judgement, I do. Slowly turning, I hover in the open doorway, hands braced on either side, awkwardly shifting my weight from one heeled foot to the other.

Fucking indecent; that’s what the sight of him is. Shirt split down the middle to reveal a sculpted torso, pants gaping to reveal the tight boxers beneath, thatface. He’s… porn. He’s fucking porn.

He advances, and Igulp.

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