You’d always been the designated sober friend. It wasn’t that you didn’t know how to have fun; alcohol just wasn’t your thing. You liked knowing someone was clear-headed enough to keep an eye on everyone else. It made you feel… useful. Safe.

Tonight, though, that decision came back to bite you, because your assigned chaos for the evening was none other than Gerard Gibson.

Gibsie had been on a rampage since you got to the party: racing bugs down the pavement, trying to convince strangers to form a conga line, and making you chase him halfway down the street before you finally dragged him back inside.

Now, at least, he’d settled. The two of you had ended up on the couch, surrounded by the noise and lights of the still-thriving party. He was still drunk, but calmer, eyes hazy and unfocused as he leaned back beside you.

“Oh, look at the stars! Great Bear… so beautiful,” he murmured dreamily.

You turned your head to look at him, half amused, half exhausted. “Gibsie,” you sighed, “we’re inside. Those are ceiling lights.”

He blinked, frowning slightly, and then grinned. “Still beautiful, though.”