drunk on you. - paul mescal.
The bar was buzzing, filled with warm, golden light and the steady hum of conversations overlapping. Glasses clinked, laughter spilled from every corner, and the air smelled of whiskey, citrus, and something sweet lingering in the background. You weren’t sure how long you had been there, only that the night had unraveled into a pleasant blur of drinks, shared stories, and that light, floating feeling that came with being just tipsy enough.
Paul had been next to you the entire time, close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. His laugh had been your favorite part of the night—deep, rich, spilling so effortlessly from his lips that you found yourself glancing at him more than necessary.
At some point, you had leaned against his shoulder, the alcohol in your system making you bold, making everything seem a little softer, a little easier. He didn’t pull away. If anything, you felt his body relax beneath your touch, his warmth radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Your gaze trailed up to his face, studying the way the dim lighting cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones, the way his lashes were unfairly long, the way his lips were slightly parted as he listened to someone else speak.
"You’re so pretty," you murmured, voice slow, like the words were melting on your tongue.
Paul turned slightly, looking down at you with a small, amused smile. "I think you mean drunk."
You shook your head, your cheek brushing against his shoulder. "Drunk and pretty."
His laugh was softer this time, his fingers idly playing with the edge of his glass. He was warm, solid, real. The alcohol made you bolder, but there was something else beneath it—a pull, a quiet gravity that had always been there, waiting.
"You really think so?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now, more intimate.
You nodded, blinking slowly. "Every part of you is pretty." Your fingers reached out before you could think twice, brushing over his jaw, tracing the faint stubble there. "Your eyes… your nose… even this stupid little crease right here when you smile too much." You traced the corner of his mouth, watching the way his breath caught.
Paul swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, like he was fighting something—some invisible line neither of you had dared to cross before.
"You’re beautiful," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words sent a different kind of warmth through your body, a heat that had nothing to do with the drinks you’d consumed. Your fingers curled into his shirt, your heart pounding in your ears as the space between you became almost nonexistent.
Neither of you moved for a second, suspended in that charged moment, where everything could still be undone. But then Paul exhaled shakily, and his hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing over your cheek as he finally, finally closed the distance.
The first press of his lips was tentative, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this as much as he did. But the second was deeper, more certain. His other hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress like he needed to hold onto something solid.
You sighed into the kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more perfectly against his, your fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. He tasted like whiskey and something sweeter, something undeniably Paul.
The world around you faded—the music, the voices, the fact that your friends were only a few feet away. Nothing else mattered except the way his lips moved against yours, the way his breath mixed with yours, the way his fingers tightened around your waist like he never wanted to let go.
When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, Paul rested his forehead against yours, a lazy, dazed smile curving his lips.
"So," he murmured, voice husky. "Still think I’m pretty?"
You laughed, nudging your nose against his. "I think I might be in trouble, actually."
Paul grinned, his hands still holding you close. "Me too."
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