He followed her to the bar. Ridiculous, the distance was negligible and she'd be bringing the glass right back… but it was automatic—no, autonomic. Where you go, I go.

Trying to cover, he closed his fingers, alternating with hers, on the glass, and took a step back. "Good." There was supposed to be more banter there, but all he had was another— "Good."

Stepping further back, he took a sip. Which turned into an overlong swig. He forced himself to slow down lest he vomit it back up. So he could feel things like thirst, and now that he allowed it, he was parched. How had he even been speaking?

Because he needed to be with her and speaking was a kind of connection

A little out of breath, he finished drinking and handed her back the glass. "Check, one."