storm/juliette | evening
"Drunk?" Storm echoed, brow furrowed. "You must be mistaken—" It took him a squinted-eye moment to recognize to whom he spoke. "—mistaken, Juliette. I am not in the least intoxicated. I am in perfect command of my faculties."
So perfect that it was a veritable struggle to keep his eyes from lazily drifting away. His tongue felt strangely heavy. Had he eaten something? Stew, he'd eaten stew for dinner. He hadn't liked the turnips. It was a funny word, turnips.
He blinked. Yes, Juliette, he was speaking with Juliette.
Juliette.
Suddenly horrified, he leaned back, eyes wide. Storm was, of course, in perfect command of his faculties—