The lights are low, the TV’s flickering across the walls, and someone’s left a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. The place smells like beer, cologne, and leftovers.

Declan’s at the dining table, deep in whatever’s taken over his datapad, wires snaking across the floor like techy tentacles. Flynn’s sprawled on the couch like gravity’s betrayed him, one arm flung over his eyes. Ithan’s the only one vertical. He leans in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, towel over one shoulder, already dressed like someone who had the energy to care. Annoying. Ruhn trudges in last—barefoot, shirtless, gloriously unbothered. He heads straight for the coffee pot, blinking slowly like a wolf mid-shift. He grunts.

“Morning,” Flynn mutters hoarsely. “You look like you fought a demon in your sleep.”

“Didn’t,” Ruhn grumbles. “Might’ve. Hard to say.”

“Definitely snored like one,” Declan adds without looking up.

Ruhn flips him off over the rim of his mug. Ithan chuckles, tossing Flynn a granola bar. He catches it one-handed and squints like it’s a cursed object.

“What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” Ithan says. “You should try it.”

“I was gonna make pancakes,” Flynn lies, unwrapping it anyway.

Declan glances up. “You don’t even own flour.”

“Okay, rude.”

Ruhn drops onto the other end of the couch, sighing. For a moment, they all sit — coffee cooling, datapads glowing, rain ticking gently against the windows.

Then Flynn sits up slowly, brushing crumbs off like he’s returning from war.

“You know what this place needs?”

Declan doesn’t look up. “Disinfectant.”

“A party.”

Ithan groans. “We just cleaned up after the last one.”

“Exactly,” Flynn says, rising like he’s about to deliver a TED talk. “The mess is gone. The vibes are sad. We fix that with music, beer, and morally questionable lighting.”

“You’re bored,” Ruhn mutters.

“I’m inspired,” Flynn says, gesturing at the empty floor space. “We move the table, roll up the rug—”

“We don’t have a rug,” Declan deadpans.

“Metaphorical rug,” Flynn says. “We clear the floor, turn the lights down, get Dec’s tech to do the flickery glowy thing—boom. Instant party.”

Declan leans back. “What are we celebrating?”

“Rain stopped.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Ruhn mutters.

By early evening, the living room looks… slightly less tragic.

The couch is pushed against the wall. Empty crates repurposed into tables. Lights flicker gold and blue thanks to Declan. Ruhn’s playlist pulses low through the speakers, all bass and rhythm you feel in your ribs.

Flynn surveys it like a man admiring his empire.

“Boys,” he says proudly, arms outstretched, “we’ve done the impossible. We made this dump look intentional.”

Ithan tosses him a beer. “Let’s just try to make it past midnight without the floors getting singed.”

Flynn cracks it open and grins. “No promises.”

The house is humming now.

Lights pulse in warm gold. A dozen bodies press in: leaning against the walls, crowding the drinks table, spilling out into the garden where someone’s definitely lighting something illegal. Couches are half-covered in jackets. Aux recruits are shouting over a card game. Fae from Sector 3 are brewing glowing cocktails in the kitchen. No one asks what's in them. Flynn moves through it all like he was born to — grinning, dapping people up, dodging a game happening in the hall. He’s loose in a way he rarely gets. Untethered. Unbothered. Free.

Then the front door opened. She stepped inside like she belonged, not flashy, not loud, just there in a way that made the room tilt a little.

Flynn went still mid-sip. The noise around him blurred. conversations melting into static, music dimming just enough to feel distant. He didn’t know her. But the moment she glanced in his direction, eyes locking with his for a half-second too long before moving on — Flynn felt something tighten in his chest.

Not lust. Not recognition. Just... interest.

“You good?” Ithan asked, appearing beside him.

Flynn didn’t take his eyes off her.

“I think I just saw my next mistake.”