comfort {complete}

37

We're back at Noah's bar, and I'm drinking white wine instead of red. I shake the glass a little, just enough to hear the jingle of the ice cubes, then survey Noah and Lois. She got drunk the moment she got here, and has now busied herself with flirting shamelessly with the bartender. She glances over at me every now and then, concern in her eyes, then pastes that come-hither smile back on her face and continues sweet-talking.

Noah has been playing foosball with Matilda for the past hour and a half, and it's sufficient to say he's losing. I've never understand this game—the majority of my knowledge is from Friends­—but I think it's pretty straightforward (twist the knobs to get the little plastic men to move and attempt to hit the ball) and it seems difficult to be losing as hard as he is right now. He lets out a loud swear as she gets another—goal? I don't know—and rolls his eyes at himself.

"Stephanie," he groans, striding over to me, "why am I so terrible at everything?"

"I don't know."

"That was helpful, thank you."

I give him my widest smile. "Anytime."

He grunts and slides onto the bar stool next to mine, leaning comfortably against me and resting his cheek against my hair. I don't know when I got so okay with him, or when I started to want him to be this close, but either way, I'm not complaining.

"Is this weird?" he wants to know.

"Eh."

He accepts this and wraps his arms loosely around my waist, pulling me nicely, marginally closer. I hide my smile in his shoulder, but I think he can feel the way my lips spread and scrunch up the fabric of his shirt. It's elating and wonderful to have his arms around me, and I feel so overwhelmingly safe that I almost cry.

a/n: troye sivan is such a cutie.