The rooftop of Harcourt’s apartment was alive with laughter, music, and the clinking of beer bottles under the warm glow of string lights. After weeks of chaos—Project Butterfly, near-death encounters, and more alien surprises than anyone had signed up for—the 11th Street crew had earned this night.

Adrian Chase, clad only in his tighty-whities, was the center of attention, dancing wildly under Economos' precision beer shower like some deranged, soaked god of chaos. Chris whooped, joining in with his own bottle, dousing Adrian like it was some sacred ritual. The others cheered, Adebayo grinning while Harcourt rolled her eyes but didn’t stop them.

But you didn’t join in.

Leaning against the railing, beer in hand, you watched the spectacle with an unreadable expression. Normally, Adrian was just too much—too loud, too earnest, too… Adrian. The oversharing, the bizarre tangents, the way he’d cheerfully recount the goriest details of a mission like it was a fun anecdote. Yet now, as he threw his head back under the spray of cheap lager, laughing like an idiot, something about him was… different.

Maybe it was the way his wet hair stuck to his forehead. The wiry strength in his frame, usually hidden under ill-fitting clothes or his bulky Vigilante suit. The ridiculous, unguarded grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.