“I’m taking the bed,” she’s sober enough to stand, at least, but too drunk to go home, “You can have the couch.”
Seventeen and drunk for the first time. She can’t tell if she should be proud of herself for waiting this long, or disappointed for not waiting long enough. Whatever. Her familiar had to pick her up in the middle of the night and she’s so exhausted she can’t even muster a spark to charge her phone, so either way she loses.
“Oh, I can sleep on the couch in my own apartment?” his hand is steadying her like she’s ready to drop any second, which, come on, “How generous of you.”
“You’re my slave, Wolfpants,” Reese slurs as he tucks her in and kisses her forehead, “I own this apartment. I own everything you’ve ever done.”
“You still owe me from the diner the other night. $14.50.” And he flips the light and shuts the door.