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A date. The term weighs heavily on Whiskey’s mind as he undoes the knot to his tie and attempts to tie it yet again for the umpteenth time. When he finishes with the knot he stands up straight to look at himself in the mirror. His lips curl into a slight grin as he smooths his fingers across the lapel of his jacket. Then a split-second later his expression falters and he wonders if it’s too much.
Bullets flying? He doesn’t even flinch. But a date ? You’ve got him sweatin’ buckets.
Whiskey mumbles frustratedly to himself and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He types out a message to you: “how fancy is this place we’re going to?”
You reply in seconds: “really not all that fancy. no need to get suited and booted [smiley emoji]”
‘Oh, good.’ he thinks, sighing in relief as he pulls the tie off his neck and throws it carelessly onto his bed. He replies back to you: “boots are a necessity for a Statesman sugar [devil emoji]”
Whiskey eventually decides to forego the crisp dress shirt and pants he had on for a heather gray button up, dark wash jeans, a navy blazer, and dark brown dress boots. He takes one last look at himself in the mirror in the hallway near the front door of the apartment and fidgets with his hair before heading out.
--
When the private car arrives at your apartment building, Whiskey steps out and waits on the sidewalk for you. He fiddles nervously with the cuffs of his shirt. ‘Why so nervous?’ he muses to himself, just on the brink of getting a tad angry at himself on the inside as he notices that his hands are a little shaky.
He starts pacing back and forth in front of the car, muttering to himself to try to calm himself down. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, Jack. She asked you to go to dinner. It’s dinner. A first date. You’ve done a million of these before.” Whiskey cringes at the thought; so many first dates that went nowhere, so many things that didn’t last longer than what he needed at the time.
Meanwhile, you’ve just rushed out the front door to the apartment complex. You welcome the cool night air on your skin. Having to do something so formal gets you so flustered and you hope Whiskey wouldn’t notice your anxiousness. You turn and see Whiskey pacing in front of the car.
“Whiskey?”
You catch him by surprise, and he trips over his words as he straightens up awkwardly and smooths a hand through his hair. “H-hi. Hey there, didn’t uh, notice ya come out.” Whiskey pauses and clears his throat, “Ah, Jack is fine.”
You smile softly at him, “Jack.”
He finally gets a good look at you, and if he wasn’t already minding his manners he would have whistled. You chose a knee length black dress with a floral print of peach colored blooms, black leggings, and brown ankle boots.
You shoot him a questioning look, unsure of what to make of his frozen state and wide-eyed staring. Whiskey shakes himself out of his stupor and practically skitters up the steps to meet you. He grabs the forest green coat that you have bundled under one arm, shaking it out and holding it for you so you can slip it on.
“Jack, really?” you ask, giggling bashfully at the gesture as you slide one arm into the coat’s sleeve and then the other. Your heart thumps in your chest and you feel warmth creep across your face when he takes your hand and leads you down the steps. Jack is too preoccupied with his own previous ruminations to notice, but he hides it well behind a gin you’re all too familiar with.
He opens the car door with his free hand and ushers you inside. “I’d be a fool to not mind my manners when you look as sweet as cherry pie.” he tells you with a wink as he lets go of your hand while you slide into the back seat of the car.
An embarrassed expression crosses your face for a moment as you look up at him. Despite working with Whiskey for a little over a year, his saccharine Southern compliments were something you still haven’t gotten used to. You try to shake the feeling off by imitating your best Southern drawl and trying to mimic his signature grin, “You shine up nicely yerself, Jack Daniels.”
“Hey now,” Jack says with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow at you. You’re beaming at him at him now, “No. Really. You look handsome tonight.” You pause, feeling embarrassed again. “I mean, you always are. Uh, handsome.” His heart flutters as his eyes go a little wide from your comment, and his mouth quirks into a smile that you rarely get to see. It’s softer, more genuine, instead of the confident smirk he usually carries.
You suddenly notice he’s not wearing his hat. “No Stetson?”
Whiskey looks up and reflexively lifts his hand up to the space where his hat would be, having forgotten that he chose not to put his Stetson on tonight. “Ah, nah. Thought I’d do without it.” He nods at you and closes the door, then rounds the car to hop in on the other side. You already told the driver the address to the restaurant so they pull away from the curb as soon as Jack settles in.
He slings one arm across the back of the seat, spreading his legs out as he pivots slightly to his right so he can look at you while he’s speaking, “So where we headed?”
“ The Maroon Bull . It’s a tapas place. The menu’s big enough that I’m sure you’ll find at least a few things you’ll like.”
He nods at you but says nothing. His gaze lingers a bit too long on you, his eyes flickering up and down to take you in. Something about how he looks makes you think he wants to say something. You wait a beat as his eyes meet yours, but you suddenly feel unnerved by the direct eye contact that you shift and look out the window to observe the passing scenery as the car slowly makes its way through the Manhattan traffic.
Whiskey knows that you know he wanted to say something; he just couldn’t get the words out. He mentally berates himself as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws at the corner anxiously as he tilts his head to look out the window on his side of the car. A few minutes pass and you finally break the silence, “Are you feeling okay, Whis--erm, Jack?”
He looks over at you, eyebrows raised, “Hm? I’m fine, sweetheart. Why?”
Your eyes narrow slightly, brows furrowed with suspicion and he laughs at that and asks again “Why?”
“You’re quiet.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re usually talking my ear off. What’s up?”
You watch as he lounges back once more, clicking his tongue as he turns his head to look out the window briefly. “I suppose it’s plain as day, huh?”
You give him a small smile, “Not really that hard to figure out. If you’re not talkin’, you’re either fighting or something’s got you worked up.”
He rubs his hand over his mouth, feigning deep thought, then his trademark grin returns. “Of course you’ve got me all worked up, girlie.”
You scoff at him, rolling your eyes as you mutter sarcastically, “Please.” Jack chortles at your reaction. He raps his knuckles against the top of the back seat and he seems to be looking at anywhere but you. For a moment, his eyes are fixated on the upholstery on the roof of the car and then his gaze falls back on you. You see something in his eyes--yet another expression that you feel like you hardly ever see. The dark and piercing, overly confident shine in his eyes is replaced with something much softer. You swear that even the color of his eyes looks a little more like honey than the rich brown you’re used to seeing. A little wider as the muted overhead lights shine on them, a little more honest.
“It’s true,” he says. Whiskey’s leg jiggles just a little nervously before he continues, “Ain’t nobody caught my eye like you did.”
You blush slightly at his statement, but you try to brush it off by smirking at him and giving him a little sass. “Stop. Like things were always so peachy between us, huh?”
You transferred to Statesman from a sister agency stationed on the West Coast, headquartered in San Francisco, to assist with filling Ginger Ale’s spot as the tech expert. Ginger had been promoted to field agent once Tequila transferred over to Kingsman. Needless to say, you and Whiskey were at odds from the get-go. While Ginger tolerated the flashy, overly confident combat style that Whiskey and Tequila were known for, you ran a much tighter ship and constantly got on him about fooling around on missions.
It took a while for you two to find a good balance and break the ice enough to get comfortable with each other. Soon enough, even his flirtatious banter doesn’t bother you; ‘endearing’ is the first word to come to mind, though more in a comical way than affectionate. Meanwhile, Whiskey learned to take you more seriously--that you getting on his ass about things really meant that you didn’t want him, or any agent, to fall in the line of duty while you were around. In an odd way, it made you both soften up around each other enough to actually be friends.
Your gaze turns soft as you look him in the eyes, “But, y’know, I’m really happy you’re here.” He seems to light up at your statement, his shoulders suddenly squaring as he sits up taller. The smile on his face is just a tad sheepish, and his eyes seem to hold this expression that says, ‘Aw, go on.’
---
A couple of rounds of drinks got you both loosened up enough to let the tension melt away. Things were going much better than what Jack expected of himself; he had a knot of anxiety for a long while thinking that he’d be too forward or say the wrong thing to put you off.
Much to his delight, you responded well when he flirted a little with you, even if your reactions were mostly rooted in feeling bashful. You knew he was serious this time around compared to all of the usual quips you hear at work, and it was a tad overwhelming to know that you’re suddenly the object of Whiskey’s sincere affections. Truth be told, you hadn’t dated anyone after your last relationship fizzled out shortly before you left California a year and a half ago, and it was strange to be getting so much earnest attention all at once now. As the night passed on, you definitely thought things were strange when Whiskey was asking you all of these questions about yourself, and didn’t leave any room in the conversation for you to ask him anything.
“I don’t wanna talk about me anymore, Jack.” you finally blurted out. He blinked at you and raised his eyebrows, honestly looking surprised by what you said, “Huh?”
You put your elbow on the table and cradled your chin in your palm as you eyed him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re avoiding talking about yourself.”
He pursed his lips and he had this look about him like he was gazing off at someplace distant. “I don’t..,” he trailed off, his brows furrowing as he trained his eyes back on you again, “Don’t really have much to say.” Whiskey ran a hand through his hair, huffing out a small sigh. “I really wanted to get to know you better. Y’know I haven’t actually sat down like this and asked you any real questions about yourself.”
“You’re not letting me ask anything about you, though.” you say with a sympathetic smile. “What’s the man beneath the Stetson and all that bravado, huh?”
“A workaholic,” he says with a gruff chuckle as he lifts his glass to his lips and swallows a mouthful of the liquor. Jack clears his throat then continues, “If I’m not workin’ then I get antsy. My mind wanders and I feel like I’m gonna go crazy if I’m not doing something.”
You have an inkling about what sort of thing he’s deliberately not bothering to mention, but it’s definitely not something suitable to discuss on a first date--certainly not something you feel comfortable getting him to open up about right now anyway.
“But what do you do for fun , Jack?”
“I’m guessin’ you don’t mean the regular stuff like TV or movies.”
“Nope.”
He scratches at his jaw as he contemplates the question. “I like to take out my Winchester ‘73 and practice shooting targets. Used to be able to do it on horseback, but I haven’t done that in a while so I’m probably shit at it now.”
Your eyes widen with excitement, “Dude, seriously? You have to show me sometime! Also, how could you not mention you like lever-action rifles to your own quartermaster here?”
“Okay, wait a minute,” Whiskey says with a chuckle as he pulls his phone out of his blazer pocket to search for something. When he finds it, he scoots over to you on your side of the semi-circular booth. “Champ recorded this ‘bout seven years ago, the last time I went shooting on horseback. Ginger was nice enough to get the good stuff all in one clip.”
He tapped the video to play, and it showed Whiskey being filmed by someone with a shaky hand. He sat atop a chestnut colored horse that had a white diamond on its head, rifle in hand and confident as ever. You watched as he rode his horse off into the distance through a target course rigged with all sorts of odd contraptions to simulate moving targets at differing heights and angles. It wasn’t easy to make out by how far away Champ was with the camera, but each target was rigged with a plum-sized balloon filled with colored paint--and every single one burst in a colorful splash as Jack rode past.
“That’s crazy,” you said, wide-eyed still as you nudged him in his side with your elbow. “I mean, I guess I’m not surprised but holy shit!” Jack can’t help but beam at the compliment as he tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Well, I don’t know if I can still do that now . I’m gettin’ old, y’know.” He laughs at the well-deserved eye roll you give him, but instantly shuts up when he feels your hand curl around his.
“Nothing’s too much for you, Jack, not even yourself.” You can’t help but smile softly at him. He looks at you with that warm gaze again as he squeezes your hand very gently in return and flicks his thumb across the back of your hand. Your words bounce around in his head with far more weight than you may have intended them to be, but he feels happy nonetheless. Whiskey’s eyes flicker to a spot past you, and his mouth turns up into a huge grin. “Wanna know what else I like?”
“What?”
“C’mon, get up,” he urges, nudging your shoulder with his own. You oblige him, and he doesn’t let go of your hand as you slide out of the booth. He follows after you, then when he’s upright he’s tugging you around outside to the balcony patio to the small outdoor dance floor. Jack listens to the music for a minute and nods in approval, holding both of your hands now as he brings you close. “I like dancing.” he says as he sways comically.
“I don’t really know how,” you whisper as you look around, fretting that others would be watching.
“I can teach you.” He lets go of one of your hands, and you shiver when you feel his fingertips brush against your cheek. You turn to look at him again, blinking at him in surprise. Jack laughs at you and holds your free hand again, “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Or, rather, your feet too now I s’pose. Don’t worry about anyone else.”
‘Of course it’s salsa,’ you think to yourself as you’re suddenly aware of what music is playing and he’s already coaching you through the basics. Even when he’s going through the basic few steps he has this weird shimmy in his hips that you find so endearing that you’ve nearly forgotten your own embarrassment. Luckily you catch on quick and your own footwork isn’t as terrible as you thought it would be.
Whiskey seems to think the same thing, chuckling ‘ Not bad .’ as he leads you into a quick spin that you weren’t expecting. You gasp lightly, squeezing his arm when you come back around. When you look up at him he looks positively giddy and you can’t help but mirror that happiness in your own smile.
“You good? Or do you wanna stop?” he asks as he leads you back into the rhythm again.
“I’m good,” you reply, then add some snark. “Count yourself lucky, cowboy. You’re probably the only one I’m willing to embarrass myself like this with.” His heart skips a beat and can’t help curling his mouth into a grin as he pulls you in close again, his hand at your hip squeezing affectionately. Jack winks at you and says, “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
---
You can only go for two more songs before you ask for a break, and you both wander over to the mini bar next to the DJ. He leans against the bar while you slide onto one of the stools as you gulp down some ice water and fan yourself with your free hand.
Whiskey puts his elbow on the counter, cradling his chin in his palm while he looks at you. “Thank you for indulging me, sweetheart.”
You look over at him with eyes half-lidded as you enjoy the evening breeze wafting throughout the balcony, a silly smile spreading across your face. “It was fun. I really enjoyed myself. You’re a good teacher, Jack.”
The two of you stay at the bar for a bit and have another round of drinks. Jack opens up a little more when he asks to take a picture of the two of you together. “I’m still learnin’ digital,” he mentions after he snaps a series of them until he finds one he’s satisfied with. “I didn’t tell you that I wanted to be a photographer, did I?”
“Hmmm, nope. Photographer to … secret agent and booze peddler. That’s a leap.” you tease.
He chuckles, “That it is.”
“What happened? Why’d you stop?”
Whiskey visibly winces--the answer coming instantly to his mind. A dream he chased in his teens and early twenties, but pushed aside because it wouldn’t bring money to the table for his family.
“What happens to everyone, I s’pose. Life.” he said in a half-truth. He didn’t want to touch another camera after his wife died. The thought of capturing moments of his life--or anything--without her made him feel sick for so many years.
“I’m getting back into it, though,” he continued, a brightness suddenly appearing on his face. You were skeptical, but you hid it and merely nodded and smiled. “ Bigfoot --god, y’all really need better call signs out West--is tryin’ to make me find happier things to focus on.”
“You’re finally letting the doc poke around in your brain matter, huh?” you replied with a chuckle. “Bigfoot” was another agent that transferred with you to take over the reconfiguration of the alpha-gel project, which meant that they were doing more brain-picking with some of the agents--starting with the most senior ones. As much as Whiskey danced around it, you knew what he was covering up during the conversation, and you were fine with him talking as much or as little about it as he wanted to.
“Yes, ma’am. None too happy about it. Would rather have a doc poke around in my guts wide awake instead.” He picks his drink up and winks at you as he brings the glass to his lips. You scoff and nudge his leg with your knee. “Bigfoot’s good, cowboy. They’ll really help you if you give it time.” You paused and licked your lips nervously. It suddenly felt so strange that Whiskey’s opening up during the evening could make you feel so soft. Usually, it’s all sarcastic quips and getting playfully annoyed at each other--but this isn’t work , and there’s no profesional ‘veneer’ to hide behind and ignore the rawness of it.
A little voice at the back of your mind says ‘fuck it’ and you gently grab one of his hands to tug it off the bar so you can hold onto it. You cast your gaze downward, watching yourself curl your fingers around his as you hold it suspended in midair between you both. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stiffen at the gesture, though his eyes are sharp as he watches you.
“You don’t have to be alone in it either, Jack.” you tell him as you glide your thumb across his knuckles. The two of you are both watching this simple gesture--almost hypnotic as the pad of your thumb rises and falls between each one, and whatever thought you had wanted to voice gets caught in your throat. You’re looking up into his eyes now, and you find them wavering with some sort of mixture of hurt or longing. His brows are furrowed and the lines around his eyes suddenly seem darker.
Jack’s natural instinct is to run the instant any time someone threatens to explore him deeper. He clears his throat as he tears his gaze away from you to look at something over your shoulder for a split second. Then his eyes are back on you as he gives you a small smile, his free hand holding up his bourbon and swirling the liquid. “M’sorry, but is this shit as difficult to navigate for you as it is for me?”
You do nothing to suppress the huge sigh of relief that bursts out of you. “Holy fuck, it is! ” you respond with a laugh. He wiggles his eyebrows at you comically as he downs the remainder of his drink. You were about to say something but Whiskey shushes you and gently tugs at your hand that’s still holding onto his. “Let’s just have fun, sweetheart. Just for tonight. I just wanna enjoy you for as long as I can.”
“Ice cream,” you blurt, your eyes widening a little with excitement, “I wanna get away from this noisy place.” Jack nearly jumps off his bar stool as he shoots you a wicked grin. “I’ll pay the tab and you call the car.”
----
A half-hour later, you and Jack are sitting on a bench outside the ice cream shop. R&B music pipes through the speakers from the restaurant next door. You settled on a waffle cup with a scoop of avocado and coconut ice cream with pieces of jackfruit that Jack keeps stealing spoonfuls of. Meanwhile, Jack looks downright giddy sipping on his mangonada . He spears one of the mango slices slathered with chamoy at the top of the drink with a toothpick and pops it into his mouth.
You chuckle at him, “You look like a little kid.”
“I feel like a little kid right now.” he tells you with a grin as he takes an exaggerated slurp of the drink. “I haven’t had one of these in forever.”
“Really?”
He nods, “Tastes like childhood. I’m rememberin’ those blazin’ hot summers with my friends piling into the paletería to get one of these with the pocket money we all saved up.” You study his face as he looks down and rolls the cup between his hands and notice that his expression has that interesting warmth to it that you’ve seen over and over throughout the evening.
“‘ Tastes like childhood ’..” you repeat in a murmur, and then you smile at him, “Yeah, I get it. Do you remember those lollipops with the chili powder? The one in the yellow bottle?”
“ Lucas ! God, I miss those too.”
You both start rattling off names of treats you both used to love; clearly you both have terrible sweet tooths. Whiskey has a heavy fixation on Mexican pan dulce and tropical fruits (“Anything mango or guava. Anything !” he says). He snorts out a laugh when you tell him how much of a flan snob you are, and seems inclined to try halo halo sometime despite being leery about ube ice cream and the red beans.
He cuts off the conversation to point out that your ice cream has started to get soupy. He shifts, his knee accidentally rubbing against yours. Something like a pout escapes your lips from the unexpected contact while you have the plastic spoon in your mouth. The noise was so quiet that you hoped he didn’t notice, but thankfully he was too busy people watching out in the courtyard across from the ice cream shop.
You decide to test the waters, inching a little closer so your thigh pressed to his. Jack stiffened very slightly at the contact and his head turned to look at you, eyebrows raised and eyes widening in slight surprise before his mouth twitched in a small smile. You smiled back at him, your lips curling around the spoon still in your mouth as he moved closer until you both were shoulder to shoulder.
You move your right arm, offering your open hand to him, and his gaze flickers down to observe the gesture before looking back at you. His eyes shine like tempered chocolate when he looks back up at you as he carefully laces his fingers with yours and tugs at your hand to rest it on his thigh. You hear him sigh contentedly and you feel his body loosen up from whatever tension he had left over. Jack allows himself to relax against you, the voice in his head repeating, “ Just enjoy it. You have her in this little pocket of time. ” He uses his fingertips to toy with your hand, tracing your knuckles and the lines on your palm. It’s been so long, he thinks, and he wants to remember these little pieces of you while he can.
A soulful melody piped through the speakers, and you instantly recognise the song from the first note. You yank the spoon out of your mouth, suddenly inhaling sharply with excitement as you tell him, “I love this song!” Whiskey perks up, head tilted slightly as he listens to the music; Phillip Bailey’s smooth falsetto paired with the heart-melting lyrics of “ Reasons ” echoes throughout the courtyard.
Suddenly, Jack feels like he got hit with a lightning bolt of energy. He looks back at you and flashes you a wicked smirk as he sets his drink down and stands up, tugging at your hand to usher you to get up as well. “C’mon, you’re gonna give me one last dance to this.” The sudden swiftness of him pulling you up makes you spill some of your ice cream on the ground.
“Jack, you’re gonna make me spill--” He knocks the cup out of your hand, and it lands with a splat off to the side. You scoff, shooting him a mock glare as you chastise him with a laugh, “You’re so damn rude.”
“You were just about finished with it anyway,” he responds, that grin still plastered on his face as he snakes his arm around your lower back, still holding your hand tightly. He tugs you closer as he has you both swaying to the music. The motion makes you reflexively grab at the lapel of his blazer with your free hand, and you can feel your face get hot.
Your mouth pulls into an embarrassed smile as he whispers the lyrics at you, letting him lead you into the movements of the slow dance. He whisper-hisses the chorus, “ And I’m longin’ to love you just for a night, kissin’ and huggin’ and holdin’ you tight --” Whiskey interrupts himself as he observes your expression, smiling as he chuckles at you, “Oh, you look so bashful, sweetheart.”
“Shut up,” you groan, fisting his jacket with your free hand as you press your face to his shoulder so he can’t look at you. A group of three people shuffle past you both; one of the women giggles and you hear them whisper, “Aww, that’s cute. ”--no doubt seeing the both of you attempting to dance to the song in a public space. The thought of other people watching you both makes you groan agitatedly again with a loud ‘ uuuugh! ’
Jack laughs loud and hearty as he drops your hand to wrap his other arm around you into a crushing embrace as he pulls you in clumsy circles in time with the music. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease.”
You slip your arms underneath his blazer, lazily circling them around him to return the embrace as you lift your head up to look at him with an amused smile while he practically drags you along, “I wouldn’t really call this dancing, Jack.” His eyes meet yours, and you note how soft his gaze looks--the rich brown irises incredibly dark under the muted light in the alleyway you’re standing in between the restaurants. Whiskey feels your touch through his dress shirt, and you hear his breath hitch when your fingers glide up his spine and fan out across his back.
“Nah, it ain’t dancing,” he murmurs, his eyes still locked on yours. His boots scuff at the ground as he slows you both to a stop. You feel his slow, deep breaths in the rise and fall of his chest--and even the quiet thump of his heartbeat--while he’s still pressed against you. Jack removes his right arm from you to lift his hand and cup your cheek, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to anyone.” His tone is somewhat forlorn--a quiet longing woven in his words.
“Held by anyone like this,” he continues, gliding the pad of his thumb across your cheek as he keeps looking at you in that way that spears your heart. You very nearly blurt out the thought that’s currently in your head: ‘What’s kept you?’ But that sad puppy, half-lidded look in his eyes just twists you up in knots, and you don’t want to make him feel worse. Instead, you ask the second thought that crosses your mind: “Can I kiss you, Jack?”
He blinks at you, brows raised in surprise. “What?” Whiskey knew what you just said, but at the moment his brain is short-circuiting in its ability to process it.
“Can--”
He comes to, interrupting you as he blurts out, “Of course you can, sweetheart.” His tone is unexpectedly soft. Eager, but gentle, trying to cover up his excitement as he seems to suppress the urge to duck his head down and get the deed done himself. His demeanor keeps surprising you. Jack bends just a little bit so you don’t have to crane your neck too far to get to him. You wriggle in his embrace as you remove your arms from around his back to cup his face in your hands.
As you inch your face closer to his, the hand that was on your cheek slips just below your jaw and you feel his thumb skimming across the skin of your throat. The gesture makes you swallow hard, and he hums quietly in amusement in the split second before your lips meet his. His mouth is surprisingly soft as your lips slot with his, but the tickle of his mustache is a strange sensation that makes you pause.
You break the kiss to whisper an apology after stifling an embarrassed giggle, and Jack replies with a muttered ‘ uh huh ’ and a cheeky smile then leans in further to chase after your mouth. The next kiss starts off as gentle as the first, with him just pressing his lips to yours a little firmer than the last time.
You’re almost disappointed when he pulls away--your lips suddenly tingle with the loss of him. He lets out a slow exhale as one of your hands slips away from his cheek to run your fingers through his hair just behind his ear. His brow nudges against your temple as he leans in to press his cheek to yours and holds you tightly against him once again. Your lashes brush against his cheek, and Jack hums happily as he rocks you both back and forth in his crushing bear hug.
“This was nice,” you tell him quietly as you keep your arms locked around him, tucking your head just beneath his chin, “I had so much fun with you.” Your breath hitches as he squeezes you again, and it almost feels like he’s trying to lift you off your feet. He hears you wheeze and loosens his hold, whispering apologies in your ear. Jack beams at you as he pulls out of the embrace, and he catches both of your hands with his. “Not bad for a first date, huh?” he teases.
“Yeah, yeah, cowboy.” You roll your eyes at him, then lean up to kiss his cheek. “When can I see you again? I mean, if you want to see me again.”
“If I wanna see you again?” he responds incredulously. “Sugar, you can see me anytime you want!” Whiskey squeezes your hands affectionately, and you can’t help but giggle nervously. “Really?”
His smile is so big that his eyes are narrowed, crinkling at the corners. “Anytime. Nothin’ would make me happier.” You see something so genuine in him right then. ‘This isn’t Whiskey,’ you think, ‘This is Jack.’