It’s the sort of inevitable outcome of the evening, but Neil likes that. He considers the bottle of wine on the table again, the fact that he has work in the morning—none of it really makes a difference, but he would like to be seen as not too enthusiastic (thirsty, a man had called him once; thirsty, his coworkers had teased).

Under the table, he stretches out a leg and catches his foot against Harry’s ankle. “I’d like that, yeah.”