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"Do you want to know what I really regret?"
Amy's eyes are burning into his, and though they are glazed with alcohol and an emotion he can't place, having her attention this close up is arresting enough to take his breath away. Jonah decides it's easier to cut the tension, to make a witty remark; such is his way.
"That last shot of sambuca?" He says, fondly.
She turns away, takes a sip of her water. "Forget it. You're the last person I should be telling this to."
And then she's being violently sick, and he's holding her hair back and boy, this is a weird night. She sits back down, wipes her mouth. He wants to say something - anything - to break the silence, to make her feel better about puking her guts up.
Unfortunately, there is only one thought stuck in his head.
"Why am I the last person you should tell? We're kind of friends now, aren't we?"
The word pierces him a little, even though it's entirely of his own choosing. But Jonah wants to be her friend, he really does. He'll take anything of her that she's willing to give him.
"Are we? But friends don't dream of kissing each other. On the mouth. With tongues. And hands everywhere. You know." She must be more intoxicated than he originally thought. Her tongue is loose, words coming out thick, fast and clumsy.
For a second, the purest panic chills him; it is as though she has plundered his own mind and extracted his most shameful desires.
She can't know, can she? Vodka doesn't give you superpowers, as far as he's aware.
Mere moments have passed since Amy spoke, but he feels like an eternity has been and gone, altering him completely. He scrabbles to mentally gather himself.
However, all that comes out of his mouth is a garbled, choking sound.
Amy seems delighted at this response, utterly unconcerned with her revelation and the ripples she has disturbed.
"Ha! Have I finally found your off switch?" She's looking at his mouth, her eyes alight with amusement, but then something shifts and they smoulder, turning warm, turning hot, then positively aflame.
He feels that same heat pool in his stomach, hypnotised by her expression, the sheer hunger in it.
The want.
Amy wants him, he realises with a jolt, and suddenly his heart is beating so frantically that he's scared she can hear it.
She's only ever looked at him with exasperation, in challenge or debate, even outright anger. Occasionally, he makes her laugh and those looks are his favourite; the way her eyes crinkle and light up, and he is the reason for her mirth.
This expression is new and unexpected, so foreign on her features. It is an expression he has only seen on her in his dreams - those barely-repressed, torturously sensual dreams that he thought he alone was experiencing. Jonah would have been willing to bet his life savings on that fact.
Apparently, he would have lost. (He never did learn how to gamble without succumbing to eventual ruin.)
"You're awfully quiet. Are you having some sort of moral crisis in your head?"
Even this inebriated, she can read him like a book.
Before he can formulate a response, she has turned towards him, that look ever-present in her eyes, and it is surreal yet wonderful. He could drown in those eyes.
Amy leans forward, though hesitantly, like she is wrestling with her own moral crisis. Her gaze flits from his eyes to his mouth and he mirrors her, feeling oddly as though he is watching this scene play out from somewhere beyond himself, like a movie (like a dream).
She is so close, too close; it captivates him. She is close enough to count the scattering of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, spot something small stuck in her hair...
It's vomit.
Like a bucket of ice water, it is enough to shock him out of his Amy-induced trance, to thoroughly wake him up.
She is so close, too close. And as much as he desperately wants to cradle her face in his hands and claim her lips, this is a much-needed reminder that she is incredibly drunk and incredibly vulnerable (not to mention, incredibly married). Jonah recoils like a spring, hitting his head on the wall behind him.
"Oh shit, my puke breath must be awful, sorry." If she's hurt from the rejection, she's not showing it, her eyes closed. He wants to soothe her anyway, assure her that it wouldn't matter, that if she wasn't this wasted, precious little could stop him from kissing her senseless if she'd asked.
Instead, he offers her a smile.
"It's strong enough to take down an ogre."
"Well, let's go find Dina and prove it, then."
He laughs as he rubs the back of his head, where he can feel a bump forming. He ignores the sharp pain, relieved that she is taking this in good humour. Maybe she won't remember it when she sobers up, and as long as Jonah never brings it up again, she won't find it awkward.
Noticing her empty water cup, he gets up to refill it. Amy accepts it, takes a sip, and once she's sure that she can keep it down, glances over at him once more.
"Thanks for staying with me." Her voice is delicate, almost apologetic, and Jonah wonders how often she lets other people take care of her.
"It's no problem. What are friends for?"
"Really pushing the whole friend thing, huh?"
"I can be annoyingly persistent, or so I've been told."
"More like annoying, period," she mumbles. But he doesn't mind; it's safer ground, familiar. This, he can do.
"Think you can hobble back? It must be close to opening time, and I'm sure you don't want to be here when the next shift arrives."
He offers her a hand up, and she takes it, warm and soft and slightly damp. She only wobbles a little. He resists the urge to steady her.
"I'm okay." Amy removes her hand from his grasp and gives him another tentative smile before she turns to leave. The warmth of it settles over him like an embrace. She is so fucking beautiful, even now, with her tired eyes and tangled hair.
Tomorrow (today) is a new day. They will most likely return to their usual back-and-forth but he's optimistic about their friendship status after tonight (her marriage status, not so much). Hopefully, she will forget that, in a heart-stopping moment, she had nearly kissed him (had let slip her desire for him).
Jonah locks the memory away, knowing it will all come to nothing. He doesn't need to plague himself with what-ifs, especially on those nights where he feels particularly self-pitying. By not saying anything about what almost transpired, Amy has made her intentions clear, so he will never embarrass her or hold it over her head.
But a weaker part of him also knows he will not be able to resist savouring the image of that heated expression on her face, so simple and open in its raw honesty.
Because it's like his dad always says: in vino veritas.