“Lottie, slow down,” you said, watching your best friend toss back another shot of vodka like it was water. She laughed, loud and carefree, fixing her backwards cap like it was part of her personality at this point. Probably was.

She poured herself another shot, didn’t even hesitate, just threw it back and let out a loud cheer. You rolled your eyes. She had always pushed her limits, always had to be the loudest, the boldest, the one everyone watched.

And tonight was no different.

The room was practically vibrating with energy as people shouted her name. She pumped her fists in the air, feeding off the noise, feeding off the attention—your attention most of all. You saw the way her eyes kept flicking toward you, even in the chaos.

She went back to beer pong, lining up her final shot like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. The ball landed clean in the last red cup. The room erupted.

“Fuck yeah!” Lottie shouted, spinning around to face you. “Drink up, hot stuff.”

She held out a red solo cup, but it wasn’t just a handoff. She stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell the vodka on her breath and the faint scent of her cologne—something piney and cheap that still somehow worked on her.

Her grin tilted lazily. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed. You know that?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re drunk.”

She smirked. “Drunk enough to say what I’m thinking. Sober enough to mean it.”

She handed you the cup, fingers brushing yours, and didn’t let go right away. Her eyes met yours, steady despite the alcohol. “Come on. One drink. For me?”

She knew what she was doing. She always did.

And the worst part was, so did you.