"Oh?" The question soared, along with his smitten thoughts, toward the unexpected knocking on the door. Who was knocking? It couldn't be Paul. No, it could be Paul, it had to be Paul, because Paul was on his way. Paul, Paul, "Paul," he'd managed out loud on accident, but Paul had said he was going to let himself in? As those knowing they're ever welcome do? Why was he knocking? Was Paul angry? Vince, like a lion, scented his cleanly shaven chin against Honey's collarbone, the surface arch of her recoiling neck, and eventually the side of her cheek, before he plopped her onto the edge of the couch he'd lifted her toward. "That's Paul."
Sliding himself back into a more sober repose, that feigned wobbling variety of happy drunken gaits, he strut over toward the door. There was a miniature laughter chirping in his throat, at what one could only imagine, as he went behind the door, pressed his index to his mouth in a 'Shhhhh' fashion to hush his roomy, and began slowly opening it.
Was it a ghost! Who opened it! OH, he could barely keep himself staying quiet. Vince fancied himself pretty fucking funny.