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turning up like a bad penny. “It only gives you the illusion of warmth. Really you’re more likely to die if you’ve been drinking because you can’t judge your own body temperature.”
    His mouth quirked. “Thanks for the lesson, Betty Biology,” he said. “You want some or not?”
    Oh fine . “Give it here,” I said.
    He presented the mouth of the flask to me, his other arm staying firmly around my waist. I reached out and unscrewed the cap. The sharp, heady smell of rum hit me full in the face and I stuck my tongue out while he watched in amusement. “A lightweight?” he asked me.
    He didn’t wait for me to answer. I watched in fascination as he put the flask to his lips, and, in a move so smooth it had to be well-practiced, tossed it back. “I’m not a lightweight,” I said absently. “I’ll have you know I can drink a whole bottle of wine or two before getting sick...”
    He pressed the flask into my hand. “Good luck with rum,” he said.
    I scowled at him. I would show him. I took a swig.
    Oh.
    Oh, god .
    I gagged and sputtered, the alcohol burning down my throat and up my nose at the same time, but miraculously I failed to puke it all back up. It settled into my stomach like a nuclear bomb. I held the heaving down, closed my eyes, and counted to twenty.
    When I opened my eyes again the flask had disappeared and Damien was looking at me with deep concern. “Shit,” he said. “Sorry. I thought... I thought you were sort of joking. Like... sorry. Thought you could handle it.”
    “I handled it,” I said, feeling defensive. The hot flames of alcohol were already making their way into my bloodstream. “I didn’t vomit all over your jacket, did I?”
    “No, but you sure as hell didn’t look like you enjoyed it.”
    I pressed my lips together, embarrassed. “Yeah, well.”
    “It’s okay. I’m just used to seeing girls who can toss that sort of thing back without any problems. I forgot that not everyone is as hellbent on having a liver transplant as I am.” He leaned back against the wall, brought one leg up, and propped his elbow on it. Putting his hand on his face, he covered his eyes and grew quiet.
    My brow knitted together. “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “No,” he said. “Not really. Are you?”
    I was about to tell him that I was fine, but I realized that I wasn’t. At all. “Not really,” I echoed.
    “Well then,” he said. “Let’s just be not-okay together.”
    I nodded. “All right.”
    The arm around my waist tightened, and slowly, gently, he pulled me toward him. “Come here,” he said, and I did.
    We sat there like that for a long time, the cold of the night nipping at our little alcove. Despite the heat from the vent and our bodies, my toes got cold, then my feet, then my legs. My torso was perfectly warm snuggled up next to Damien, but there was going to be a problem if we stayed out here much longer.
    “We should probably try to get back inside again,” I said eventually. “It might be a while before Dwayne decides that I’m a missing person and starts looking for me.”
    Damien shrugged. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Just have to keep each other warm.”
    I couldn’t help but suppress a shiver of delight at those words, and his hand on my waist clenched.
    “We could die instead, if that’s more appealing than being next to me,” he said.
    I drew back and gave him a sharp look. The rum had worked its magic and I was feeling a bit tipsy now, but I was still sober enough to give him a glare. “What are you talking about?” I said.
    He lifted his fingers from his eyes for a moment and peeked out at me. “Don’t you hate me?”
    He asked it as though it were a perfectly innocent question.
    My mouth dropped open. “No!”
    He frowned. “Then why are you trying so hard to get away from me?”
    I couldn’t help but pull away further. “What are you talking about?” I said.
    He cocked an ironic eyebrow. “Let’s see. You avoid my eyes in the elevator,