Larry is definitely starting to feel the wine.

It's not bad, just… noticeable. His limbs feel a little heavier, like the warmth in his chest is seeping outward. He lets out a slow breath, pressing his chin lightly against the top of her head, hoping the pressure might somehow ground him. Maybe if he focuses on her warmth instead of the way she fits perfectly against him, he'll be fine. He's got this. Just gotta keep control of his stupid body, keep himself in check.

Another sip of wine — because that's what a responsible person does when they're trying to get a handle on themselves, right? It's not even that much. He's just now getting a little tipsy, just barely. His head feels a little floaty, but nothing crazy. He can still see the stars clearly, still track the ones she points out. His brain's working fine. He can drive later. Easy peasy.

Just as he starts to relax, feeling himself melt a little more against her back as she quiets down, he feels her shiver. A small tremor against him, so quick he almost misses it.

He lifts his chin, pulling back just enough to glance down at her. She's cold. Shit— his jacket's still in the truck. He moves to rub his hand along her arm, wanting to help her warm up a little, but then she bends forward slightly, gathering her skirt to drape it properly over her legs from where it was still around her knees.

His hand hesitates mid-air.

Because suddenly, his focus isn't on her arm anymore. It's on her back. The way her muscles shift as she stretches, the slow dip of her spine, the smooth curve of her waist. The way her skin looks impossibly soft in the low light.

He swallows, throat dry.

Instead of settling his hand where he should, his palm presses flat against the bare skin of her back. His fingers spread instinctively, aching to feel more. His thumb drags a slow path down the ridge of her spine, tracing the shape of her without thought. Her skin is soft, impossibly so, and he swears he can feel the slow rise and fall of her breath beneath his fingertips.

His own breath is caught somewhere in his throat. The warmth of her seeps into his skin, buzzing through his nerves, and it's all he can do to stay still — to not pull her closer, not press his nose against her hair and just breathe her in.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows she stiffened when he touched her, that she sucked in a little gasp. But embarrassingly enough, he doesn't think he processed it. His brain isn't working properly — everything in him is hyper-focused on the feel of her, the soft press of her skin beneath his fingertips, the way his hand maps over her shoulder blades, following the delicate ridge of her spine.

She shivers when his thumb grazes the prominent vertebrae at the back of her neck, and the sound of his own breathing feels too loud in the quiet, mixing with the heavy thrum of his pulse in his ears.

At some point, his hand slides lower. His fingers trace down the gentle slope of her spine, past the dip of her waist, and before he even thinks to stop himself, they slip under the edge of her dress.

The second his fingertips graze her skin there, Penguin jerks upright like she's been electrocuted, her back arching away from his touch as a high-pitched, strangled noise breaks from her throat.

Oh, fuck.

The way she moves, the sudden loss of contact — it should snap him out of it, should make him let go, but instead, it only makes it worse. Because now his hand is hovering in the space where her warmth used to be, tingling from the brief contact, and his brain is stuck on that noise.

Good lord, give him strength.

The lord, in fact, did not give him strength.

Because Penguin doesn't move right away.

For a second, she just sits there, spine still arched, shoulders drawn tight, like she's trying to process the feeling of his hand on her. Then, slowly, her free hand drifts to her back, fingers brushing over the exact spot where he touched her.

And then, like she needs to look at him to make sense of it, she shifts, turning just enough to glance back at him over her shoulder.

His breath catches.

She looks— God.

Even in the low moonlight, he could see how wide her eyes were under her lenses.

Her parted lips pressed together for a beat, like she might say something, but then she only swallowed, her throat bobbing. Her tongue flicked out, a quick, nervous sweep over her lips, and when she pulled them between her teeth, he caught the faintest indent before she released them again.

She inhaled, sharp and shaky. Held it. Then, finally, let it go — slow, uneven, somewhere between a sigh and a pant — and Larry's brain whites out.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

He can't do this.

He can't let his brain and body go where it wants to go.

If they were sober, if they were back in her room, curled up under a blanket, wrapped up in each other the way they always are, maybe it'd be different. Maybe he could let himself want.

But they're not.

They're in the back of his truck, under the stars, tipsy, and pressed so close he has to actively fight to ignore the way she's practically in his lap. The warmth of her, the way she smells, the way she just fits against him — it's all sinking too deep, settling into the pit of his stomach, making it harder to think straight.

And he doesn't even know if that is something she'd want.

Yeah, they cuddle. Yeah, they tease. Yeah, they spend half their time tangled up together, stealing warmth and napping and touching like it's second nature — but all of that is playful. There are no stakes to it. No risk of misreading things, of fucking up what they have. If he just assumes that means she wants that too, and he's wrong? If she didn't actually mean it that way? He'd feel like such an asshole for even thinking it.

And even if she did, even if she turned around right now and made it clear, he wouldn't want it like this. Not here, not now, not when they're buzzing with cheap wine and the weight of the night.

Because if that is going to happen, it's not going to be some hazy, tipsy act in the back of his truck. He wants to confess first. He wants to take her on dates, bring her more flowers, watch the stars with her again when they both know exactly what they are to each other.

If that is going to happen, it's going to be real. It's going to mean something.

And also, just the thought of doing that with her in the back of his dirty, dented, old-ass truck? God, no. Not just because it's his truck, but because it's his truck. Uncomfortable. Cramped. In a space that's all metal and hard plastic and ridges, nothing warm or comfortable or even remotely right about it. Not exactly the kind of place he wants to be with someone that special… Or for his first, to be honest…

If he found out there was some alternative version of himself who actually went through with that, he'd punch the guy in the face. Twice. And then shake him by the shoulders and demand to know what the fuck he was thinking.

Also, definitely not on prom night, of all nights. The night where it's borderline expected — where half their classmates are probably already off doing exactly that just because it's what you do. Because it's the classic ending to a romantic night. The natural next step.

He's not gonna let that be the reason why it happens.

And fuck that guy from the party for putting the idea in his head in the first place.

He drags in a breath, slow and uneven, trying to force some damn oxygen back into his head. He meets her eyes and finds her still staring at him — still a little nervous, still a little flustered, but tilting her head just slightly, like she's waiting.

She blinks at him, and he swears he can feel her searching for something, like she's silently asking him a question.

He doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know. Because if he does, he might answer it the wrong way.

So he swallows down the knot in his throat, shakes his head just enough to deny whatever this is, and presses his forehead to her shoulder. The warmth of her seeps into him instantly, and he exhales against her skin, letting his hand fall from where it had been hovering uselessly. It lands on her arm, fingers curling just slightly as he murmurs, "'M sorry… I… I shouldn't have touched you like that."

And he really shouldn't have.

The thought claws at him, tearing through the haze in his brain. It goes past everything that they usually do, past their easy touches and playful teasing, and dips into a space they're not at yet. It would've been different if they were dating — but they're not. They're just… whatever this is.

And yeah, she hadn't pulled away right away, hadn't said anything, had just sat there and shuddered under his touch — but that didn't mean it was okay. That didn't mean she wasn't just frozen in shock, trying to process why the hell he was suddenly touching her like that.

He didn't even ask.

That's the first thing he's supposed to do, isn't it? Make sure she's okay with it? Ask if he can? Instead, he just… did it. Let his hand move before he even thought about what he was doing. And yeah, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe that was why he let himself go for once instead of reining it in like he always does — but that's not a fucking excuse.

His mom taught him better than this. She sat him down years ago, when he was barely old enough to start thinking about girls like that, and told him how a man is supposed to act. How he needs to respect boundaries, needs to listen, needs to ask.

And yet, here he is, tipsy off some cheap wine, putting his hands on his friend-crush like he has any fucking right.

His throat feels tight.

The wine let him do something he'd been thinking about these last few days, and that's what gets to him the most. If he'd been sober, he wouldn't have done it. He knows he wouldn't have. And the fact that, what, two glasses knocked out his self-control enough to make him forget something that important?

His fingers tighten around her arm, grip firm but not desperate, just needing something to hold onto. He nuzzles deeper into her shoulder, hiding his face as the word slips out again, quiet and rough. "Sorry…"

For a second, there's nothing but the sound of their breathing, the gentle lapping of the lake from a dozen feet away. Then— fingertips in his hair, scratching slow and careful against his scalp. A soft touch, soothing in a way that makes his stomach twist up even more.

"Don't worry about it," she murmurs. "It's fine."

And he hates that. Hates that she's letting it go so easily, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't matter, just because it was him. Because that's not how it's supposed to work. Just because she likes him doesn't mean she should just take whatever he does.

Larry lifts his head just enough to look at her, brows pulling together. "I didn't even ask first," he grumbles.

She blinks at him, like she genuinely can't understand why he's making a big deal out of this. Then, instead of answering, she turns back toward the front. He pulls away slightly, a flicker of worry hitting him. Was she about to leave? But she doesn't.

Instead, she shifts, wiggling and squirming a little until she can move sideways between his legs. Her calf brushes his knee as she lifts her legs, tossing them over one of his thighs before settling into place.

And thank God for that, because he could finally bring his knees in a little without feeling like his stupid pants were about to split at the seams.

Then, without a word, she plucks his glass from his hand. She leans away just enough to set them both aside before turning her attention back to him. She shifts in closer, leaning her side up against his chest like she belongs there. His arm instinctively curls around her waist — warm, natural — before he catches himself and starts to pull away. But before he can, she leans into him harder, like she's telling him not to, so he lets it stay.

That's when he realizes she's looking at him. Really looking at him, eyes locked onto his, their faces close enough that he can see the way the light catches on her iris.

"Larry," she starts, voice soft, if a little slurred. "It's okay. You know I would've stopped you if it bothered me, right? I would've been swinging." She pauses, then, a little quieter, a little sheepish, "But… it was nice. I liked it."

He stares down at her. His brain stutters, tries to catch up to the words she just said, but before he can even process the weight of them, she keeps going.

"It's not like you slipped your hand down the front of my dress, anyway," she says, waving her hand like it's nothing, like it's not the worst fucking thing she could've said to him right now, and— yeah, no, he's blushing. His whole face burns at the thought, at the mere suggestion, and she has the nerve to huff a laugh.

"I could do it back to you, if you want," she offers, smiling up at him and reaching up to pat his cheek.

He lets out a breathy scoff, shaking his head. "Well, you asked, so it's not the same," he mutters before rolling his eyes. "Besides, you touch me all the time anyway. It wouldn't be any different than normal."

She makes a noise of agreement, but there's a glint in her eye that makes him just a little bit worried. Before he can dwell on it, she cups his face in both hands and tugs him down, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. His stomach flips, his other arm coming to wrap around her waist, and this time he can't focus on his hands on her bare back because he's getting something so much better.

Then, before he can even catch his breath, she keeps going. A kiss between his brows, another kiss between his eyes, one soft press of her lips down the bridge of his nose, another against the tip — each one making his pulse hammer just a little harder, his chest just a little tighter. Then there's a moment where he feels her breath puff against his lips, and his heart all but stops.

But instead of closing the distance, she tilts her head at the last moment, landing a firm, lingering kiss to his cheek before finally settling down, resting her chin on his shoulder.

One of her hands slips into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp as she murmurs into his ear, "Don't worry 'bout it, ya? You didn't do anything wrong. Stop lookin' like a kicked dog."

"I don't look like a kicked dog," he grumbles, burying his face into her neck. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the perfume she shared with him earlier in the night, but beneath that, something warmer, something that's just her. It settles deep in his chest, spreads through his limbs, and he goes boneless against her.

She told him it was fine. That she liked it. That it wasn't even that serious — it was just her back. And then she said he could've done worse.

Because yeah, he could've done worse. But he didn't. Even with the wine, even with her pressed against him, even with her looking the way she was. He stopped before he crossed a line. And she's here now, pressed against him, her fingers in his hair, her body warm against his, and she told him:

'Don't worry 'bout it.'

And maybe, just this once, he won't.

So Larry lets himself hold her. It's a little awkward with his back bent the way it is, with her sitting sideways between his legs, but he doesn't care. He just tightens his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her pressed against him, the soft rise and fall of her breath. She fits against him so well, like she was always supposed to be there.

His fingers flex against her back, feeling the dip of her spine, the smoothness of her bare skin beneath his hands. He nuzzles into her shoulder, breathing her in. It makes his chest ache in a way he doesn't have the words for.

And it hits him, then, that they've never actually hugged like this before. Not really. They've been close in every other way — cuddling in her bed, leaning against each other, her clinging to his back — but never this. Never just holding each other, arms wrapped tight, nowhere else to go.

Maybe that's why it feels so different. So grounding.

Unfortunately, at some point, they have to leave. They can't stay wrapped up in the bed of his truck all night, no matter how much he wants to. It's cold, and while their embrace is doing its best, body heat isn't the most reliable way to stay warm — especially for Penguin. She gets cold so easily…

With a heavy sigh through his nose, he pulls away from her neck. His hands slide up to her upper arms, lingering there for a second before he gently tugs her back. She grumbles at him, shifting against his hold like she doesn't want to move, but she lets him guide her away. Her fingers slip from his hair, trailing down to his shoulder before finally dropping away completely.

He swallows down the urge to pull her right back in, instead looking at her as he drawls, "I think we should probably head out…"

His voice comes out rougher than he expected, a little raspy at the edges, and he's not sure if it's from the cold, the wine, or the fact that he really doesn't want to let go of her right now.

She hums, nodding. "Yeah… not sure I can name any more stars right now, anyway."

She flashes him a playful, content smile as she says it before shifting forward to crawl out from between his legs, reaching for the bags with her skirt bunched up in her hand again.

And just like that, he misses her. The warmth of her pressed against his chest, her hands in his hair, the weight of her leaning into him — it's all gone, and he wants to pull her back, wants to bury himself in her again and pretend the rest of the night doesn't have to happen.

But he's trying to be reasonable. Trying not to keep her outside all night just because he's feeling greedy.

That doesn't mean he can't pout at her back as he reaches for their glasses.

He sips and finishes the rest of his, even as disgustingly warm as it is, before grabbing hers and offering it out to her to finish. And as she takes it from him, he sits there, staring at the empty glass in his hand, thinking.

He doesn't want to take her home.

Yeah, it's probably eleven, maybe even close to midnight, but fuck, he really doesn't want to drop her off at her house. Even after all of that happened, he wants more.

More time. More of her.

Maybe it's selfish. Maybe he should just be happy with what he got. But damn it, he doesn't care.

So when he helps her down from the truck bed, hands firm on her waist again but too tired from the emotional rollercoaster to even think about getting flustered, he murmurs, "Wanna show you something."

Her legs wobble slightly when her feet touch solid ground, and he steadies her without thinking, fingers tightening just a little before letting go. She blinks up at him, curiosity written all over her face, head tilting just slightly like she's trying to puzzle him out.

Sometimes, he wonders how she does that — how she manages to look at him with the same wide-eyed, confused expression as a lost animal. He'll never say it out loud, obviously. Telling a girl she reminds him of a bewildered raccoon is a one-way ticket to getting his ass kicked.

Even if he does think it's cute.

"Gonna tell me what it is?" she asks, shifting the bags in her arms as he steps away to lift the tailgate, locking it into place with a solid clunk.

"…Nah," he says, smirking when she pouts at him before huffing and turning on her heel to head for the passenger side.

She doesn't push it, just climbs in and settles the bags at her feet as he gets in and starts the engine. The truck rumbles to life, headlights cutting through the darkness, and she eyes him warily before asking, "…You can drive, right?"

He squints at the road ahead, then tilts his head toward the sky. "Well, I can see the lines just fine, nothing's wobbling, and there's only one moon in the sky. So yeah, I'd say I'm good to drive."

She hums, clearly weighing whether or not she believes him, but after a pause, she lets out a quiet, "Okay," and leans back in her seat, shifting to get comfortable.

He huffs a little at her tone before focusing fully on the road ahead. His truck's headlights cut through the dark until he pulls onto a main road, where the town had actually bothered to put up streetlights. With a flick of his fingers, the radio crackles to life, music filling the quiet between them. His hand returns to the wheel, tapping idly in time with the beat — half in tune with the song, half just something to do.

It's nice. Just driving. Just being. The warmth of the truck, the low rumble of the engine, the way the music rattles faintly against the windows. The way the worn leather creaks under his grip, the way the gas pedal sticks just a little before catching up to his foot.

His eyes flick to her for a moment — she's gazing out the window, one arm draped lazily over her stomach, fingers toying absently with the fabric of her skirt. She looks content, and somehow, that settles him more than anything else tonight. Warms him more than the alcohol does.

Speaking of, his focus isn't quite as sharp as before. Not bad, not dangerous. Just… off. His fingers flex around the wheel as he blinks, trying to shake the creeping fuzziness at the edges of his mind.

It's not like he had that much. Hell, he can still see fine, still track the lines on the road. But there's a lightness in his head, a slow, creeping buzz in his limbs, like his body is a second behind his thoughts. The fruity taste must've masked the alcohol, tricked him into thinking it wasn't hitting that hard — or maybe it's just that awful swig catching up to him now.

Thankfully, the apartments aren't far. He can already see them in the distance, which means he won't have to drive much longer.

As he pulls into the small parking lot, he almost clips the side of Henry's car, jerking the wheel at the last second. He winces. 'Yeah, great timing to stop being behind the wheel.' Why is it hitting now, you ask? He has no clue. First time drinking wine, maybe it's just slow like that.

Beside him, Penguin unbuckles her seatbelt as he kills the engine. He reaches for his own buckle, pops open the door, and hops out — only to grab onto the side of the truck when a wave of lightheadedness hits him hard.

Breathe, dude. If he can't even walk straight, how the hell is he supposed to get her to what he wants to show her?

He makes his way around the front, noting — huh — that he actually parked pretty tilted. Oh well. Not his problem right now. Opening her door, he looks up at her and smiles, reaching for her hand to help her down, just like he did at the start of the night.