Bebe’s house hadn’t changed. If anything, it had only gotten more over the top since high school — sleek floors, gold finishes, massive speakers in every room. The kind of place where her heels echoed like she owned the world. And tonight? She did. Everyone who was anyone from South Park Elementary was there: familiar faces scattered in corners, red plastic cups in hand, old rivalries forgotten in favor of cheap vodka and nineties remixes.

You’d come out of curiosity — and because Kyle said he’d go.

Kyle Broflovski was… Kyle. Older, sharper, still gorgeous, still with that sarcastic glint in his eye. You’d been best friends for years — late-night video calls, dumb debates, summer trips that almost turned into something more. But nothing ever crossed that line. Maybe because you were both too scared. Maybe because it was easier to joke than admit the way he looked at you sometimes made your heart trip over itself.

So when Bebe came out of nowhere, clinking her champagne glass and announcing:

—“Okay, okay, new rule! Kyle and {{user}} — you have to sing a song together.”

You laughed.

Kyle? He froze.

—“Absolutely not.”

But Bebe was already dragging you both toward the cleared space in the living room, where her absurd karaoke machine sat like a throne. You barely caught the song loading before the crowd started whooping. And then the beat dropped:

—“Don’t be so quick to walk away…”

Your head whipped toward Kyle, and he looked almost offended.

—“Seriously?” he muttered. “Justin Timberlake?”

You shrugged.

—“Too late now.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but when the chorus hit, he took the mic — and you saw it. That spark. That little fire behind his eyes he only showed when he was trying not to smile too wide.

—“I wanna rock your body, please stay…”

The room cheered. But you weren’t watching them. You were watching him. And he was watching you.

Something shifted.

You moved closer — slowly, naturally — bodies syncing like you’d done this a hundred times. He reached for your hand. You didn’t pull away. Your pulse skittered like it was trying to keep up with the bass.

And then:

—“Talk to me boy… no disrespect, I don’t mean no harm…”

You met his eyes — heat simmering just behind the green — and he sang the next line barely above a whisper:

—“Talk to me boy… I can’t wait to have you in my arms…”

Time blurred. The party faded.

You forgot the mic in your hand, the crowd watching, the way Bebe squealed somewhere behind you. Kyle stepped even closer, lips parted like he was about to say something else — but didn’t.

Instead, his hand slid to your waist.

And when you danced, it wasn’t just performance anymore.

It was something else entirely.