Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

R afferty

Once outside, we pause while Stan puts on his sunglasses. He can't regulate his pupils, so direct sunlight can sometimes be too much for him. Then with him holding on to Hump's harness, we set off. I spare a smile for Hump, who is alert and focused now he's on the job.

"So, how was your day?" I ask.

Stan grimaces. "It was good up until the last fifteen minutes."

"That was not my fault."

"Must you rise to him?"

"I think I must." Stan snorts, his face lively with amusement. "He's just so stuffy and bossy," I add.

"Have you ever considered that you might like him if you tried?"

"No, and neither have you." That shuts him up because we both know it's the truth. "If I tried until the end of the world, I would still think he's a dickhead. He speaks to you like you're five, Stan, and he's going to send you to sit on the naughty step. Why on earth do you put up with that?"

"He can be kind and he makes me laugh sometimes." He shrugs. "Bennett's not so bad."

"What a ringing endorsement. I feel faint."

"Oh, shut up. How was your day anyway? Did Jed fire you?"

" Me ?" I say in indignation. "He would never do that."

"One more day attending weddings half-naked, and he might say differently."

"I'm telling you, half-naked weddings are going to catch on."

"I'll take your word for it. I can't see Leo endorsing it."

"Not likely. The buttons on his wedding shirt are made of gold. Did I tell you that?"

His full lips are pursed in amusement. "A time or two."

" Gold . He's one step down from Elton John. If he displays a desire to bedazzle a piano, I need you to tell him no."

"Why not you?"

"He can always get around me. You're the strict one in this partnership."

"That's not difficult. You have the impulse control of a penguin."

I come to a stop outside the newsagents near our flat. "I'm just going to get some gum. Do you want anything?"

"No, thanks. I'll go and grab a coffee from Starbucks. Do you want one?"

"Nope. See you in a minute." I watch Stan and Hump walk off, admiring the grace of Stan's long-legged stride before shaking myself and heading into the shop.

I grab a couple of packets of gum and, as an afterthought, some more mints, thinking of the wedding tomorrow. I have more of these in stock than a polo mint convention. Fresh breath and clean hair are a must for a wedding planner. I add a bumper bag of chocolate buttons to my basket and join the queue, looking idly out of the shop window.

I notice Stan has his coffee and is standing outside the Starbucks. He's hugging his precious coffee to his chest and talking to Hump, the dog's head tilted as if he's about to answer back. Seeing them makes me smile—the two most important beings in my life. A shaft of sunlight lights up Stan as if he's an angel. It's completely false advertising, because he's naughty and irrepressible. The breeze ruffles the dark curls around his high-boned, sweet face, and something warm curls around my heart.

"Alright, Raff?"

I jump and turn to find the shop owner watching me with a knowing smile.

"Sorry. I was just thinking about the events in the stock market today," I say quickly.

"Oh, yeah? That sounds interesting. Tell me about it, and make sure you go into great detail." His eyes twinkle.

I slump. "Oh, shut up."

"Hey, no judgement. Stan's a good-looking bloke. I'd stare if I were gay myself."

"I'm glad you're not. You'd be far too much competition." Errol is a smooth mover. He has a string of women who come into the shop smelling of perfume. They bring him lunch and coo over him.

He laughs and rings up my purchases. I'm just sliding my change into my pocket when he says, "Oh dear."

"What?" I turn, following his gaze, and start to laugh. "Fuck. Not another one."

A man stands next to Stan, his hand on Hump's harness as he gestures towards the road. He's obviously intending to help Stan across it.

"Oh dear, another good Samaritan to the slaughter," I say.

Errol laughs. "I suppose they mean well."

"It's shocking how many people don't know not to touch a working guide dog. Stan gets taken across the road more times than a chicken, and he never finds it particularly amusing."

"I think the bloke might be finding that out right about now."

I grin and head out. As I approach, I hear the stranger tell Stan, "No need to be embarrassed." He's using an overly loud voice that some people adopt for blind people.

"I'm not," Stan says.

"I'll just help you over. It's a busy road."

"Fine," Stan replies, "But it's actually a road I don't want to cross."

His voice is edging from polite to sharp, but the man isn't paying attention. It's a shame. His gravestone will likely say, Over-achieving Do-gooder .

"You just come with me," he tells Stan.

"That sounds rather creepy and not in a good way."

"Is there a good way?" I ask lightly. "Okay, folks?"

Stan's lip quirks. "Oh, fine, thank you. All in a day's work. And sometimes creepy is good. Remember Christian Bale in American Psycho ?"

"You're the only person who finds Patrick Bateman attractive. He literally killed people."

"Yes, but he cleared up after himself and had excellent grooming skills."

"He wasn't a Labrador."

"I just like a man who brushes his hair. Does that make me picky?"

The stranger blinks, looking between us. "Are you with him?" he asks me. "I'm going to help him over the road."

"Why are you telling me?" This is another thing that chafes—people who talk to me rather than Stan. As if he lost his comprehension skills along with his sight. "Unless you're helping me across the road, too. That would be rather nice. I haven't had anyone do that since I was five."

"Not even then," Stan offers. "Your mum used to stop to flirt with the lollipop man."

"She did always like a man in uniform." I pause. "Or any man, really."

He chuckles.

The man regards us both, and then says to me, "Oh, you can take care of him, then. I'm glad."

Stan taps his fingers on Hump's harness. "I think it's the other way around. Even my guide dog couldn't work with Raff."

I shrug. "You could be right."

"I'll leave you to it, then," the man says, quickly exiting stage left.

"Thank you so much for your help," Stan calls sweetly. "I'm sorry I wasn't completely incapacitated and couldn't make you feel all warm about yourself."

"He's gone. Don't be mean. He meant well."

He gives a dramatic sigh that makes me smile. "They always do."

"Alright, Pollyanna."

"Shut up and give me a chocolate button."

"How do you know I bought them?"

"Rafferty, I know you very well. You couldn't pass a chocolate shelf if your life depended on it." He pauses, a smile hovering on his lips. "And despite knowing you, I'm still here mentally functioning. Go me."

"Oh, shut up."

Laughing and bickering, we make our way back to the flat, where we smother Hump with hugs and kisses and leave him sitting contentedly in his basket with his rubber chicken, to which he has an undying devotion.

Once outside, Stan checks me on the pavement. "Wait."

"What's up?"

"Do I need to get changed?"

"Into a sweet person? It couldn't hurt and might widen your dating prospects."

"No, you twat. My clothes. Should I get changed into something else?"

I blink. "Why? We're only going to a gig."

"Yes, but do I look silly? What does my outfit look like?"

His long, tight body is clad in clothes that shouldn't look good together but somehow do, because, infuriatingly, he can make absolutely any outfit work. He has an air of effortless cool about him that he probably learnt at his uncle's knee. "You look fucking cool as always. I need to borrow that jacket. It's great."

He gives me a wide, unguarded grin that relaxes the usual concentration on his face and pulls out a cheeky dimple at the corner of his mouth. "I just wanted to check."

"Why?" I groan. "Bennett."

"He said I looked odd."

"Well, at least you don't look like a cunt. He can't change clothes to disguise that."

He nudges me and then threads his left arm through mine, his right hand holding his cane. We set off, the tapping of the stick a familiar percussion to the song of our lives together. I cherish how he leans on me and occasionally lets me lead. He'd never relinquish all control, and with others, he's staunch and determined to appear unbreakable. But our friendship creates trust, and it's a badge of honour I won many years ago.

He found out he was going blind when we were seventeen. We'd all known something was wrong with his sight, but the diagnosis still came as a devastating shock, and understandably, Stan didn't take it well. His shock quickly turned to rage, and for a while, he seemed like an angry stranger. He'd been surly, rude, and antagonistic, the formerly affable and sweet boy itching to pick a fight over anything.

Unfortunately, things went from bad to worse when he decided not to care anymore and thought he was invincible. Drugs and partying put him in some incredibly dangerous situations. I spent a whole summer following him on his misadventures, absorbing his snarky remarks as I lurked and made sure he was okay. I still shudder at the memory of finding him in a room where some college mates were running a train. He'd been naked and off his tits—completely unaware of where he was and incapable of forming a sentence. I'd wrapped him in my coat and got him home safe and sound. The same can't be said of the bloke who'd been responsible for the drugs and the party. I'd gone back and written ‘I am a massive cunt' in permanent marker on his forehead while he was passed out, something that still gives me satisfaction, particularly as he had a job interview the next day.

After that, Stan slowly began to accept the situation with his sight, but spent several months worrying about being a burden. Leo and I finally offered him brutal honesty—he'd always need help with certain things and there would always be people who would be idiots in the way they treated him. But that never meant his friends and family would feel he was a chore.

It seemed to be what he needed to hear. He's now settled on a happy medium where he's independent but not afraid to ask for help.

As if on cue, he asks, "Did you do the laundry?"

I snort. "Is that not my job, Stanley? I'm little more than an indentured servant existing to please you."

"You wouldn't talk so much if that was the case. Anyway, you don't do much else except hang around being charming."

"Thank you. I know you think that's an insult, but I like it."

"Damn. Foiled again." He chuckles and squeezes my arm.

"Yes, I did the laundry. Your stuff is put away."

We'd quickly learnt when we moved in together that Stan is a disaster at laundry. He has zero patience at the best of times, and as he can't see clothing labels and doesn't want to bother with the laundry gadget that reads them for him, he tends to just shove everything in on the same programme. After he'd shrunk most of my wardrobe, I'd taken over. The Emperor's New Clothes is just a fairy story, so while Jed might have accepted my explanation of fashion trends last week, I doubt he'd be quite so sunny about full nakedness at weddings. Not to mention I like expensive shit that doesn't get on well with a boil wash.

We arrive at the venue, and when I discover there's a line to get in, I wave at the bouncer to get his attention. He's a huge bloke with a stern face, but he immediately grins when he sees us. "Hey, you two," he shouts. "How are you doing, Stan?"

"It's Neil," I tell Stan, leading him towards the club's entrance.

Stan's head turns, a smile breaking over his face. "I'm fine, Neil," he calls. "Your Steps album came in. It's behind the counter."

"Brilliant," the man mountain shouts. "Come on through."

Some men at the front of the queue grumble and mutter, but Neil gives them a steely glance, and they immediately pretend to be deep in conversation.

I clap him on the arm. "Cheers, mate."

"You're welcome. You going on to the Pink Parrot afterwards?"

Stan's hand tenses on my arm, but I concentrate on answering Neil. He's not the kind of bloke you like to have staring down at you while he waits for a response.

"Nope. Just me and Stan tonight." I give Stan an encouraging nudge. "We must ration out his personality, as his friends can only handle him in small doses. It's my turn with him tonight." I give a brave and loud sigh. "I have to be strong."

Neil laughs, and Stan punches my arm. "Wanker."

I'm smiling as we head into The Jampot, one of my favourite venues. The building is beautiful and has great history. In the sixties and seventies, it was a nightclub where all the big acts played. It went bankrupt in the eighties, shortly becoming a restaurant and then a bingo hall, and now it's a nightclub again. The elements of its past are evident in the avocado green fittings in the bathrooms and the huge disco balls dangling from the ceilings. Some wag has decorated the old bingo calling box with a plastic skeleton that's wearing a hair net and a ballgown.

Once inside, Stan folds his stick. After clipping it to the holster on the back of his jeans, he takes my arm, and I guide us through the entryway which is carpeted in red velvet.

When we get to the huge gilded double doors that lead downstairs, another bouncer called Ben signals us. I push through the crowd, Stan's hand clutching tight to my arm.

"Beer's here, boys," Ben says, reaching down to produce two bottles and handing them to us.

"You're wonderful," Stan says.

Ben smiles and says, "My wife still talks about our wedding with stars in her eyes, mate. For that, Raff can have all the beer he wants."

Ben had been made redundant when he and his fiancée Iris were planning their wedding with my agency. I'd grown attached to them, so I waived my fee and called in a lot of favours so they could still have the wedding they wanted.

I slap him on the back. "How's Iris doing?"

His stern face always softens when he talks about his wife. "Much better now, thanks, Raff. The first three months are the worst, but the morning sickness has disappeared."

"That's great."

Ben turns to open a curtain covering the wall. Then opens a door the curtain was hiding and gestures at me and Stan. "Through you go."

"Why can't we go through there?" the woman behind us asks sharply.

"Ah, these are VIPs, madam," Ben explains.

After thanking him, I escort Stan through, and Ben closes the door behind us.

We start down a gloomy corridor, taking the route the stagehands and stars use to get from the dressing rooms to the stage. Since Stan and I are regulars, the management lets us use this back way, which is much easier for Stan to traverse than the steep central staircase that always has an eager crowd pushing and shoving along its narrow stairs.

I walk more steadily as my eyes become accustomed to the dim light.

"Is it as much like a rabbit warren down here as it feels?" Stan asks, totally at home in the darkness.

A man bustles down the narrow corridor, holding a coil of wiring. "Watch out," I murmur to Stan, pulling him closer to my side and against the wall so the man can get past. Stan stiffens but then immediately relaxes into me, his body warm and familiar. The man gives us a harried nod and vanishes around the corner.

Instead of continuing, I find myself resting with Stan against the wall. It's rather comfortable in the warm, dim light, and I'm enjoying a relaxed feeling that's escaped me lately. Stan has always been able to simultaneously soothe me and make me feel more alive than anyone else.

I tighten my hold on him, and instead of pulling away as he has done for months, he melts into me, his arms coming around my waist. His breath is hot on my ear, and his hair is a silky caress against my chin. Unbidden, my fingers push into his silky curls, scratching his scalp gently. He gives a half-stifled grunt, and I groan when his lips brush against my cheek. My hold on him tightens, and I'm just leaning close to kiss him, when footsteps make us jump apart.

The man from before appears around the corner. He gives us a curious look and walks away, leaving us in an uneasy silence. I try to think of something to say—anything that won't result in more horrible awkwardness.

Stan straightens and asks, "Are we listening to the concert in a corridor tonight?"

I laugh. "Not good enough for you, princess?"

He shakes his head in disgust, making me laugh harder. It's a bit too loud, reflecting my inner state. Everything's off balance lately.

Taking a deep breath, I tug him away from the wall, and we make our way to our spot to the right of the stage. The old box seats have got a fantastic view—we're almost sitting on the band, and the whole old club is spread out before us. Being here is one of the many benefits of Stan running a wonderful shop that's so well-loved and popular with musicians and club managers.

The box would fetch a pretty penny if they sold tickets for it, but it needs doing up and there's no fixed seating here; it's become a repository for pallets and old chairs.

I stand back quietly as he sends his stick out, tapping around so he knows where he's safe. "I'm sure there are even more chairs than usual. Are they actually breeding?"

I chuckle. "Not likely. The blue chairs are willing, but the red chairs have a headache, and the silver chairs say they're holding out for better prospects."

He laughs and then walks forward, putting out a hand for the railing. I automatically sidle against him, my hand hovering at his back, but I don't say anything. Stan paid his dues during his teenage years of being poked and prodded and having decisions made for him. Now he can do things the way he wants, and I'm fiercely proud of him.

Satisfied, he offers me a wide smile. "I love this box even if it smells of cigarette smoke, a faint trace of body odour, and a touch of weed."

"Ah, ze romance of it all," I say in a hammy voice, making him laugh.

"I hope they never empty it of chairs, and we can always be here for gigs," he says almost wistfully.

If I could, I would buy the box just for him. And I'd insist he'd let me accompany him to every show so I could watch his enjoyment. Stan's curls are wild, his face keen and interested, and his colour high.

A memory of how he'd looked sucking my cock slams into my head in full technicolour glory, and I cough and shift as my dick hardens. Why can't I forget that?

I guess it makes sense. I love Stan too much for him to become one of the many men I've had in my bed, most of whom I only have vague memories of.

"Are there many here? It sounds busy."

I wrench my gaze to the crowd below. "Oh. Er. Yeah, it's a full house," I say hoarsely.

"That's good. They're such a great band. They deserve all the good things."

"Kem said Finn Jameson rang you?"

His fingers tap to the music playing over the sound system. "Oh yeah. A few days ago."

"And you never thought to mention it?" I say indignantly.

He offers me a mock solicitous smile. "Well, I was saving you from yourself. You'd only have turned up and hung around him, staring and mouth-breathing loudly."

"I do not do that."

He laughs. "If you say so."

"Does he know what he's doing by becoming involved with the shop? Soon, you'll be managing the band."

"Like Colonel Tom Parker?"

"Doesn't he make Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

"Ha ha." He reaches out unerringly, finds my arm, and administers a pinch. "You make it sound like the shop is rather controlling."

"Well, either the shop or the owner. Didn't Pat meet a band in the morning and departed on tour with them in the afternoon?"

"Yeah. The Stones. He was gone for six months and needed to sleep for a year when he came back. I don't think his liver has ever recovered properly."

"That was probably when the band started going off the rails. How's Pat doing?"

I love Stan's uncle. He's wild and free and utterly irreverent, and he gave Stan his love of music and a place where the only serious subject was who was better—Blur or Oasis.

"Fine. He split up with Flora."

"What? When did you hear that?"

"He rang me this morning. I got chapter and verse on the split and a recommendation for a new type of weed."

"I thought Flora was the love of his life."

"You know Pat. She was the love of five minutes of his life."

"So, what's he up to now?"

"Don't laugh."

"I'll try, but I'm not making any guarantees."

"He's joined a commune in Ibiza."

"Sorry?" I choke and break into laughter.

He shakes his head, a smile playing over his lips. "It's a very nice one, apparently. They have cabins and a sea view."

"They'll be worshipping him within three months tops."

"He is very irresistible."

"I still can't believe he sold the shop to you for a hundred quid. I'm not convinced he wasn't drunk or high. Or both."

"You know Pat. Family is everything, and he believes possessions and money bring out the evil in society."

"He certainly could have taught my parents a thing or two. Although not in casual drug use and extremely casual shagging. They had him beat on all fronts."

He squeezes my arm, and I savour his touch. He knows my entire history, and I know his, and our closeness is a precious thing.

The lights dim, and when the band plays those first exciting notes, Stan and I cheer. The air reverberates with a heavy dance track, and the next hour is spent dancing and singing along. I might watch Stan more than the band, but that's my secret.

They stop playing for intermission—a tradition the owners keep mainly to sell vast quantities of booze—and I lead Stan down the corridor towards the bar. His body is damp with sweat, a scent that mingles pleasantly with his cologne. It makes my head spin.

"This is why I like being with you," he says, probably louder than usual because our ears are ringing.

"I'm sure there are a multitude of reasons," I say just to hear him laugh. "Name this one."

"Because you let me be me."

He pauses, enthusiastically waving his hands around, and I smile helplessly at him. "Bennett would never have allowed me stand at the railing and let me dance."

" Let you?" I say crossly. "Has he bought you, and I never realised? Well, I hope he kept the receipt. It'll be buyer's remorse; you mark my words."

He laughs, but I grimace. I hate the way he introduces Bennett into our conversations, but I guess it's a bright point that he doesn't sound very fond of him tonight.

"He said you were a bad influence."

"I heard. Has he actually met you? You are the source of at least fifty-two per cent of our bad ideas."

"Maybe more," he says with a pleased smile.

"Probably." I snort. "And how the fuck was the skydiving my fault? That was all you. ‘Oh Raff, I need to feel alive. I need my blood to pump in my veins. You'll jump out of a plane with me, won't you, Raff?'"

"Wanker," he says, laughing at my impersonation of him.

"Truthful wanker."

He returns to his subject as we start walking again. "I mean, we went around Europe on trains when we were seventeen. If I'd been with him, I'd have been in one of those hamster balls they put kids in."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know those balls? They bounce around in them for fun at the seaside, or so Vinnie said."

"I shudder at the thought of your brother being in one of those. Anyway, it's all a bit too dangerous for Bennett. He'd like to keep you in a padded room wrapped in cotton wool."

He sighs. "I shouldn't criticise anyone for caring about me."

"I don't know, Stan. You've told him repeatedly to stop smothering you. Surely, if he cares, he should listen to you." I want to ask why he puts up with Bennett at all, really. But I don't want to spoil the evening with an argument. Who knows how long we'll be able to keep doing these things together.

"I don't want cotton wool," Stan insists. "I want to live . I want adventures. I want to create more incredible memories—like…like that trip we took around Europe."

"And that's exactly what you should have, babe. You do you."

I shoot him a fond look as I lead him into the huge bar area. I will never tell him that our European trip was a nightmare for me in some ways. I was a nervous fucking wreck thinking I'd lose him in a museum in France or a beer garden in Germany. I'd had visions of him living the rest of his life in an oompah band with a man called Fritz.

Knowing Stan, he'd have been perfectly happy, and by now he'd be managing a hugely successful German Oasis cover band.

"This place is packed. Here's a less crowded corner." I lead him to a quiet spot away from the ever-growing drinks queue. "I'll get some drinks. Stay here, babe."

"Okay. Ta, Raff. I'll have an orange juice."

I give his arm a squeeze. "I'll be back soon."

I fight my way to the bar and catch the barman's eye. He looks familiar, which in my world means I've either shagged him or arranged his wedding.

"Alright, Raff," he calls. "Looking good as usual."

Ah, it's the former.

"Hey," I say, grinning at him. I can't remember his name.

"What can I get you, Raff?"

"Oi," a man says next to me crossly. "He's only just come to the bar. What makes him so fucking special?"

"He does a wonderful prostate massage, and his mouth is like a Hoover."

The man blinks, and I smile at him. "But mainly, it's my charming personality." The cross bloke rolls his eyes, and I turn back to the barman. "An orange juice and a Bud, please, babe."

"You enjoying the concert?"

"I am. They're really good."

"I presume you're with Stan?"

I blanch. What does he know about Stan?

He chuckles as he sets the drinks on the bar and takes my money. "You might have mentioned his name a few thousand times the night we spent together."

"Ah, he's my best friend."

"Really? I thought he was your husband or something."

I stare at him. "And you still shagged me?"

He winks. "Prostate massage. Did you miss that bit?"

I grin and gesture to keep the change. I fight my way back to Stan and hesitate when I see a man talking with him, standing close.

My stomach clenches with immediate and ridiculous jealousy, and I can't believe this has happened to me. Me, who made a virtue out of casualness.

There's fuck all I can do about my feelings for Stan, and I obviously need to find new methods for coping.

I straighten my shoulders and walk forward. "Alright?" I say, nudging his hand and giving him his drink.

" Rafferty ," he breathes.

I blink at his enthusiasm. "That's me," I say cautiously.

"I was just telling Pete that we were here together."

How is it that Stan can remember everyone's name, and I can't remember the name of someone I've actually shagged? The world is a strange place.

My eyes widen as Stan leans in to kiss my cheek. "Oh," I say. " Oh ." I smile broadly at Pete. "Yeah, we're here together."

The man studies us. He's tall with dark hair and very blue eyes. "You're hot together. Fancy a third?"

"I haven't even met you yet, mate."

"Do we need an introduction to shag?" he asks.

"Probably not," I say in a spirit of honesty. "But Stan does."

Stan grimaces. "What are you on about? I could totally shag a stranger."

"I know," I say, placating him. "But you do prefer a relationship. Remember Ivan?"

"You always bring him up."

"Babe, you brought him home for a one-night stand, and last week you were the best man at his wedding."

"I can't help making friends. And I've had many threesomes, thank you very much."

I take a drink of my beer. "Do you want one with your new friend Pete?"

He pauses. "No," he says.

Pete huffs. "I could have died of boredom waiting for you two to make your minds up."

"So, you decided to leave charm by the side of the road and go with aggression?" I ask mildly. I tsk. "Manners maketh man, you know."

Stan leans back against the wall, his mouth twitching with amusement. Then he grimaces and hands me his drink. "Hold this." He retrieves his stick from its holster. "It was digging in my bum," he offers in a cheeky voice that makes me want to laugh.

"Something I shall be doing when I get you home," I say in a lordly impression of Bennett when he's in one of his moods. "You need a good spanking, young man."

Pete blanches as he stares at Stan. "You're blind," he exclaims.

"No, I just have a very long stick," Stan says.

"Bragging again, you little minx," I compliment.

"You don't look blind," Pete snaps.

Stan's mouth thins, and immediate temper sparks in his face. "You don't seem like an arsehole, but such is life."

The man bristles. "What did you just say to me?"

I roll my eyes. "He said he likes going for a stroll."

"Fucking weirdos," Pete says and vanishes into the crowd.

Stan huffs. "We're the weirdos when his opening chat-up line was ‘fancy a good hard fuck'?"

"Don't sneer. I might borrow that one."

He frowns. "Being blind is a major turn-off in the kingdom of the gay."

I sling my arm over his shoulders and hug him, pressing a kiss into his hair and handing him his drink back. "Only with the wankers. I'm sorry it cost you a threesome with Captain Charisma. He looked super ."

He laughs, his bad mood vanishing. "I think we're the sanest people here, Raff."

"I fear for the safety of the world, then."

"I'm having such a good night."

"Me too," I say softly. "I always do with you."

He smiles, and when the crowd pushes him into me, he doesn't move back. Instead, he rests into me, and the awful warmth in my chest grows and spreads.