Grooving to Life's Beat

Blame the Gin, But Not Really

I'd never done anything crazy in my life. Not really.

I'd always been the type to weigh every option, deliberate every consequence, and still end up letting someone else make the final call for me. My family dictated most of my life: law school instead of the writing program I wanted, dinners with people who'd decided my future before I even opened my mouth. Alexander. Safe, polished, predictable Alexander, who made all the right moves but never once made my heart race. Even my vacations weren't mine; they were carefully planned itineraries that someone else decided I needed. My entire life had been shaped by other people's expectations.

But tonight here I was, standing in my living room, drunk and messy and staring at him.

Marshall.

The embodiment of every reckless impulse I'd ever ignored. The epitome of everything my family would warn me against. Just a simple, tough guy, with no school degrees, no family name, no well planned-out future. Nothing to offer me in the way the world would call secure.

And yet, none of that mattered. When I looked at him, nothing ever made sense. Because against every warning, every ounce of reason, every carefully constructed rule I was raised to follow, I wanted him.

Not just wanted, I needed him. Like he was air, like he was gravity, like my heart had belonged to him long before I even knew his name.

It wasn't practical. It wasn't smart. It wasn't safe.

He stood a few feet away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his short-cropped hair giving him a sharp, almost military look that somehow made him appear even more out of place in my fancy living room. He didn't look at me with the cocky confidence I was used to seeing from him; instead, his blue eyes shifted, unsure, almost hesitant, as if he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

"I think you should get some sleep," he said finally, his voice low and careful, each word measured. But sleep was the furthest thing from my mind. All I wanted, all I needed, was him.

I leaned against the back of the couch, trying to steady myself, both from the alcohol and the weight of his presence. The room felt too big, too quiet despite the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. "Stay with me..." I said, my voice quieter now, but painfully sincere.

His jaw tightened, and I saw his eyes flicker to the door, like he was already planning his exit. "Emma, you're drunk," he said, his tone soft but firm, like he was reasoning with me and himself at the same time.

"A little," I admitted, my voice slurring ever so slightly, "but I'm not scared anymore." The words spilled out of me with more weight than I intended, but I didn't regret them. For once, they felt honest. I wasn't scared. Not of him, not of us, not of the chaos that came with letting myself feel something real.

His gaze locked onto mine then, sharp and full of something I couldn't quite place. He took a small step closer, but he still looked so unsure, so out of his depth. "I don't want to be the guy you regret tomorrow," he murmured, almost as if to himself.

"I won't regret it," I said quickly, before I could stop myself. "I just... I won't!"

His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He just stood there, frozen, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. And that vulnerability, the way he seemed so hesitant, so afraid to make the wrong move, hit me like a punch to the chest.

"Emma..." My name on his lips was softer now, gentler.

"I don't care about tomorrow," I whispered, my voice steady despite the swirl of emotions threatening to consume me. "I just want tonight. No promises, no expectations. Just... tonight."