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We make our way into the kitchen, and I have to admit the journey there was entertaining.

At least three people try to hand us shot glasses, and I have to pull Blaise past a girl in a crop top who attempts to drag him into an impromptu game of beer pong.

I am surprised to find it surprisingly less crowded given this is where the alcohol is.

Someone has attempted to make jungle juice in a plastic storage bin, and the surrounding counter looks like a sticky, brightly colored warzone.

Blaise surveys the scene and then says, "Looks like someone lost a fight with a packet of Kool-Aid and a bottle of alcohol."

"Or maybe it was a science experiment gone wrong," I add, wrinkling my nose at the suspicious red concoction. "Test subject: Partygoers. Hypothesis: How quickly can jungle juice lead to poor life choices?"

"Observation: Rate appears exponentially high," Blaise counters as he stares at the bin. "Conclusion: Further research required, but perhaps not personally." He scans the counter and moves past the jungle juice. He grabs two unopened cans of beer from a cooler in the corner. "Safer bet?"

"Much safer," I agree as I accept the cold can. I pop the tab and look up as he does the same.

"So, back to your earlier observation.…” He takes a sip from his own can. “When you were people watching, did you find anything interesting?”

I pause, awkwardly I will admit, as I process what he said.

The first thought that flies through my mind is why are we still talking to one another?

This is probably the most time we’ve ever spent willingly speaking to each other.

Usually, it's a head nod if we pass each other on campus or a quick hello if we see each other when I stop by his and Knox’s room.

"Actually, the most interesting thing I found tonight was you showing up," I say, the alcohol making me braver than usual. "Never thought I'd see you in a place like this without being physically dragged in by my brother or Wilder…speaking of which, where is he?"

I know my words make it seem as if I want Blaise to get away from me as quickly as possible, but that isn’t the case.

Blaise looks around like he's just remembered he was supposed to meet someone. "Honestly? No idea. He texted that he was 'on his way' about forty minutes ago, but knowing Wilder, he was probably coming from another party and got distracted or something."

I laugh despite myself. "That tracks."

"I should probably be annoyed, but..." He shrugs, his eyes finding mine again. "Can't say I mind how things turned out."

The statement hangs between us because I can’t figure out what to say in response to that. I take another long swig of my beer to avoid responding for a moment. I need time to think.

"So," I say, desperate to change the subject, "what's your major again? I know Knox mentioned it, but..."

"Political Science," Blaise replies, seemingly grateful for the shift in conversation.

"Seriously?" I can't hide my surprise. "I would've thought you would choose CompSci or Engineering with all the gaming."

He laughs. "Everyone does. But I've always been fascinated by political theory and politics in general. The gaming is just a hobby."

"Huh." I take another swig of my beer, processing this new information. "So you're what…planning to save the world through policy reform?"

"If only it was that simple. I'd settle for making at least a small difference," he says with a small smile.

“A small difference? I would say that’s not something a politician would say. They’d promise to give you the world.”

He laughs. “I’m a realist.”

I take another sip of my beer. That's a lie. It is more like a gulp. “Realists are boring.”

He gives me a look. “Didn’t you just say I was the most interesting thing you found tonight?”

I point my can at him. “Yeah, and that was before you admitted your big life plan is ‘mild policy tweaks.’”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Brutal.”

“Hey, don’t take it personally,” I say, tipping the can toward my lips again. “You’re still… not the worst person to talk to tonight.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "That sounds like a compliment. I'll take it."

"You should." I nod solemnly, though the room sways slightly with the movement. Whoa. When did the alcohol kick in? "I don't give compliments often. Especially not to hockey players."

"I've noticed," he says dryly, but there's no heat behind it. "Is that a journalism thing or just a you thing?"

"Both." I lean against the counter because I need the support. Not that I’d actually admit it out loud. "Journalists should be naturally skeptical. And I'm naturally…selective."

"Selective." Blaise raises an eyebrow. "That's a diplomatic way of putting it."

"I'm not being diplomatic, I'm being accurate." It’s then I realize the booze I’ve consumed is definitely hitting me now.

Two drinks isn't usually enough to make me tipsy, but I skipped dinner in my rush to get ready for tonight, and who knows how much alcohol was in that jungle juice. Bad decision.

"So what makes someone worthy of your attention?" Blaise asks, leaning in slightly. Is he flirting with me? Knox would lose his shit if he found out. Well, that’s if he’s actually flirting with me.

I narrow my gaze at him as I try to focus. "Good question. I'll let you know when I figure it out."

He laughs. "Fair enough."

The room tilts slightly as I shift my weight and Blaise's hand shoots out to steady me again. "Whoa there. You okay?"

"I'm fine," I say automatically, but I don't pull away from his touch. "Just... the floor is being uncooperative."

"You’re definitely not okay.”

"I'm perfectly fine," I insist, but even I can hear the slight slur in my words. "Just a little... tipsy."

Blaise's hand remains on my arm. "Right. And I'm secretly a professional figure skater."

"You'd look terrible in sequins," I say, then giggle at my own joke. It also temporarily distracts me from hating the way his touch is making me feel. However, I can blame that on the alcohol.

"Well that hit like a stab to the heart," he says. His eyes scan my face with concern. "How much have you had to drink?"

I wave my hand dismissively, nearly spilling what's left of my beer. "Two drinks? Three? Whatever."

"Two or three is pretty different from 'whatever,'" Blaise says, gently taking the beer can from my hand and setting it on the counter. "When was the last time you ate?”

I look up at the ceiling as I try to remember. "Um, lunch? Maybe?" The kitchen tilts slightly, and I grab the counter edge. "But it was just a protein bar, so technically not even a meal."

"What the hell, Willow? No wonder you're swaying. You need food."

"I'm not swaying," I protest, then immediately contradict myself by stumbling slightly. "The house is swaying. Big difference."

"Right. The house. Got it." His hand moves to my lower back. “We’re going to get out of here and get you some food.”

"I don't need your help," I mutter, even as I lean into him. Fighting him is useless, but I can’t help but toss the comment at him.

"Clearly," he says dryly. "Come on, we’ll head back to campus and grab something."

"But the party?—"

"Will continue without us," Blaise finishes, guiding me toward the door. "Trust me, no one will notice we're gone."

I want to argue, but the room spins again and suddenly fresh air sounds like the best idea anyone's ever had. "Fine," I concede. "But I'm walking on my own."

"Of course," he says, but his hand doesn't leave my back.

We make our way through the crowded living room, pass the solo cup collector (who's now up to at least thirty cups), and finally reach the front door. The cool night air hits my face, and I couldn’t be more grateful to be out of that house.

"I needed this," I say just before taking a deep breath of the cool air. The cold helps clear my head, but the world still feels like it's gently rocking beneath my feet.

"Better?" Blaise asks, his hand still resting lightly on my back.

"Much." I step away from his touch, determined to prove I can stand on my own. The sidewalk tilts a bit, but I manage to stay upright. "See? Perfectly fine."

Blaise gives me a skeptical look. "Right. You're the picture of sobriety."

"I didn't say I was sober. I said I was fine." I toss my dark hair over my shoulder, a move that nearly throws me off balance again. "There's a difference."

"Semantics," he mutters, but stays close as we begin walking. He pulls out his phone and begins typing away.

When it seems like he’s taking an unusually long time, I finally ask the question that has been sitting on the tip of my tongue. “Are you telling my brother about this?!”

"No," Blaise says quickly, putting his phone back in his pocket. "Just texting Wilder to let him know I left, and I ordered some food. Though maybe I should tell Knox his sister is drunk and stumbling around campus at night..."

"Don't you dare," I warn, jabbing a finger at his chest. I’m proud of myself for not tripping over my own two feet and proving his point.

"I'm kidding," Blaise says, holding up his hands in surrender. "Your drunken adventures are safe with me. Besides, Knox would kill me for letting you get like this in the first place."

"You didn't 'let' me do anything," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm a grown woman."

"A grown woman who can't walk in a straight line right now."

This time I roll my eyes, but I refrain from saying what I actually want to say because it would turn into us arguing until we get to wherever we are going. Speaking of which…. “Where are we going?”

“Back to my place.”

Shit.