The icy liquid that soaks your skirt has your fingers clamping into fists and your elbows locking into your ribcage. The air in your lungs escapes as a sharp sob when you meet Joaquín's warm, brown-eyed gaze. "Dick!"
The man next to you reminds you of a scared animal as he backs away from the frothy beer creeping across the floor, his bar stool squeaking. "What the fuck is your problem, man?"
Joaquín's mouth hangs open. "It was an accident—"
You wipe the droplets off your phone as you grab your purse. "Oh god," you whine pathetically, "I'm so sorry, I... I have to go. I'm so embarrassed."
Joaquín puts up his hands as he apologizes profusely to the stranger, and you grasp his arm when you get to your feet. He glances at you for a split second, maybe even winks, before putting himself firmly between you and the guy. "Hey, man, we all make mistakes."
— — —
Your sticky shoes squish along the sidewalk as you debate which direction to go. Small groups of friends stride by you, frowning at the state of your dress, yet don't do much else.
"Hey!" Joaquín calls after you, but you rotate in the opposite direction so he won't see the distress wrinkling your face. "Are you okay?"
You pick a direction and start walking. "I'm fine."
His sneakers hit the pavement in a light jog, and unsurprisingly, he gains on you. "Can you just—" You watch, awed as he wraps you in a fluffy blue towel, carefully dabbing at the beer. "Slow down, please?"
A realization soon clouds your relief. "Wait."
He's by your knees now. "What?"
"Why do you have a towel?"
"I always keep one in my car?" he says.
"This was premeditated!"
He chuckles. "That's a harsh word for it."
"I love this dress," you whimper, and he rises to look at you. You clutch the fleecy fabric to your reeling stomach.
"I know," he says, short of breath. "When I walked in, I felt a little bad that I would have to ruin it."
You pout. "You couldn't've just—"
"No," he answers with a laugh. "This way was the most fun, plus, you got out of there quickly."
You wipe your bare legs, trying and failing to scrub away the stickiness and the total mess of an evening you've had. "My socks are wet."
"Where are you going, by the way?"
"I was gonna—" You stand straight, folding the towel twice before placing it in his hands. "I dunno. Call a ride."
"But where are you going?" he asks again, softer, searching your glassy eyes.
Anywhere but here, you think.
"You're going home," he murmurs, answering his own question.
A nod.
"Well... I still have some of your clothes." His big warm palms bracket your biceps, and you gnaw at your lip to keep from crying. "If you're not in a rush, you don't need to stay in those wet shoes."
— — —
At peace with the loss of your dress, you sit on the damp towel draped over the passenger seat as Joaquín brings you to his apartment a few blocks away.
You defer to Joaquín as soon as you're through the door, but his outstretched arm tells you: Do whatever you need to do.
It's a silent dance, nearly graceful: Joaquín grabbing a set of your pajamas from the box stashed at the bottom of his closet, giving them to you after you've removed your makeup. You leave your soiled clothes outside the door for him to toss inside the washing machine, whirring to life at the same moment you turn on the steaming shower.
