“You’re drunk, Chris.”

“And you aren’t?”

“No.”

Chris stared at Captain Wesker, in the dim, hazy light of the bar. There were a dozen empty beer bottles in front of them, but Chris couldn’t remember which were his, and which were Wesker’s.

Wesker looked stone cold sober. Handsome, and stone cold sober. Shit, not handsome. Your boss isn’t handsome, Redfield.

(He’s really handsome.)

“I’ll call a cab,” Chris murmured, standing to stagger to the payphone.

Wesker grabbed his wrist. “Let me take you home.”

Chris felt his cheeks burn. Could the captain mean what he hoped he meant?

“Okay, sir.”