She smiles, and she's feeling shy because she feels like he can see something in her because he's so close. "Yeah," she breathes, even as she slips away from where his forehead presses against hers, her face pressed against his neck instead as she folds herself against him, her hand still on his chest. She's a lot drunk, and she's going to be for a while until she's got a hangover that'd drop an elephant - the blue drink was Romulan Ale, and there's a reason it's an outlawed fictional drink - but right now she's curled in his arms and letting him hold her and it feels good.

"I want to stay," she says, and she presses a kiss against his neck, soft and short, before she sighs. "I don't have pajamas, you're going to have to let me wear yours." Like that's some sort of great trial. She smiles against his throat, and honestly - deep down, she's hoping that she doesn't have another meltdown, because it's tiring and makes her feel like crap, every single time. "And we should dance, because we went to a party and nobody danced, and you should indulge me because I say so." The last sentence is less of a whisper and more of a we should do this, even though she's barefoot and he's just in a t-shirt and pants.