"What, your writer's intuition didn't pick that up? I'm shocked," she teases, using their linked hands to lift his arm in the air and spin herself underneath, revolving in and then back out before she leans in with an uncharacteristic giggle.

"And who said anything about it being a T-bird?" Beckett adds, leaving him to ponder that particular thought over for a moment or two as she reaches for the bottle itself, her lips wrapping around the opening to take a swig, and then squints at the label with a soft exhale. When she sets it back down, she straightens up too quickly, the momentum dizzying, and stumbles back against him.