Both of them refused to accept defeat, their pride fueling each sip until the lines between playful banter and something else blurred. They were leaning too close now, laughing too loud, their foreheads occasionally brushing as they tried to one-up each other with absurd stories and half-sloshed comebacks.
"Admit it," Monica whispered, her voice low and teasing, her breath warm against his cheek. "You've lost."
"Never," Rex shot back, though his words slurred just slightly, his grin infuriatingly cocky. "I don't lose to divas with pretty eyes and questionable drinking skills."
"Pretty eyes?" She raised a brow, smirking, but there was something softer…warmer…beneath her gaze now.
"You're swaying," he teased, his voice low and deep.
"I'm winning," she shot back, though her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, her gaze sharp and mischievous. "Face it, Mr. Pretty Boy, you can't handle me."
"Handle you?" Rex smirked, tilting his head as if accepting the dare. "Try me."
