Pacey was sitting on the dock, his legs dangling over the edge.  He could hear the excited voices and drunken shouts coming from Dawson’s house…it depressed him.  Ever since his short incarceration as a result of Matt Caulfield’s depraved fiesta, he’d decided alcohol was off limits.  It made people too uninhibited, too honest.  Lord knew he was impulsive enough without alcohol to encourage him.

 “You serenading the fish, Pace?”

 Pacey turned around to see Joey, walking a little unsteadily down the dock.  She was wearing jean shorts that hit about mid-thigh and a red tank top, and she looked beautiful.  She always did.  He wasn’t sure when Joey Potter had become so drop-dead, makes-you-breathless, fall-down-on-your-knees-and-worship-the-ground-she-walks-on-gorgeous, but she had.  At the moment, she also looked quite tipsy.  “Whoa there, tiger.  Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

 She sat down beside him, nudging him over.  Tingles ran up and down his arms.  How do you do this to me? he thought. “Why aren’t you inside?” she asked.

 “Got tired of it.”

 She cocked her head to the side.  “Pacey Witter, tired of a party?  I thought you were a party animal.”

 He shrugged.  “Not so much, no.”

 She looked at him with wide eyes.  “I miss you.  You should come inside.”

 “I like it out here.”

 “Dawson’s kinda drunk,” she said, giggling.

 “Drunk like he was on his birthday?  Or just a little wasted?”

 “He’s asleep now, I think.  On the couch in the living room.”

 “How ‘bout you, Potter?  You been knocking ‘em back?” he asked.
 
She giggled.  “A few.”

 “Maybe you should stay out here for awhile.  The night air might sober you up.”

 “When did you become so gorgeous, Pace?”

 He started.  Had he heard her correctly, or was he just going to wake up soon disappointed and horny?  “What?”

 She traced the length of his arm with her finger.  “I said, when did  you become so damn sexy?”

 He blinked.  Josephine Potter-beautiful, incredibly intelligent, sexy  Joey Potter-was coming on to him.  He had definitely stopped thinking with the right head.  Was this just the alcohol?  “Joey…you’re drunk.”

 I’m not that drunk,” she said, and kissed him lightly on the neck.

 He shivered.  She was running her tongue over his pulse point, driving him crazy.  “Joey…”

 She pulled away.  “I like you, Pacey.”

 “Well, Jo, we are friends--”

 “I don’t like you like that.”

 With that, she pulled him towards her, kissing him fiercely.  For several moments he was completely paralyzed as he tried to process what was happening, and then, slowly, he began to kiss her back.  He kissed her like he had always dreamed of kissing her: slowly, passionately, their tongues entangled with each other.  For years, they had been fighting for domination.  Now they just did it without words.

 When they pulled apart, both breathless and flushed, Pacey could only form the words, “What…the hell…was that?”

 “That was me kissing you,” Joey said lightly.  Then she stood up, walked down the dock, and just as quickly as she had appeared, disappeared into the misty darkness.

 Twenty minutes later, Pacey wandered into the Leery house to find the guests gone, empty beer bottles everywhere, and Dawson passed out on the couch, exactly where Joey had said he was.  Where is she? he wondered.  But he already knew.

 Joey Potter-the same Joey Potter who had kissed him only minutes before-had fallen asleep in Dawson Leery’s bed.