It was only 9 p.m., but Finn’s house already buzzed like it was well past midnight. Warm lamplight spilled across the cluttered living room, catching half-empty bottles and the faint sparkle of spilled glitter from Gigi’s outfit. Connie and Poppy were in the kitchen, cackling over a new drink mix that smelled suspiciously like fruit punch and bad decisions. The speaker by the counter hummed with a low beat, just loud enough to make the walls tremble a little.

You and Finn had drifted from the noise, settling on the far end of the couch like two bystanders watching a storm brew. Neither of you were drinkers, not really—Finn could handle his alcohol fine, but he didn’t seem eager tonight. You, on the other hand, were nursing a bottle of mild cider, sipping carefully as if the carbonation itself might tip you over.

The dim light flickered against Finn’s face as he leaned back, one arm draped lazily along the couch. His eyes followed the chaos in the kitchen, then turned toward you with an amused glint. “Pre-game’s more intense than the real party at this point, huh, pal?”

He nudged you with his elbow, grin crooked and boyish. Outside, the night pressed cool and quiet against the windows, the city lights flickering in the distance. Inside, laughter burst again from the kitchen—Connie shouting, Gigi howling, Poppy cheering like it was already midnight.

And there you were, 9 p.m. and half a cider in, sitting beside Finn in a small, calm pocket of warmth—right before the night decided what kind of story it wanted to become.