The party was already out of control by the time you got there—sweaty bodies packed wall to wall, bass thumping through the floorboards, and some idiot had clearly spilled beer on the rug five minutes into the night. You were only halfway through the door before you spotted Neil on the couch, arms flung wide, recounting some story loud and animated. He saw you and waved instantly, all teeth and charm, like he was born to be the center of attention. Beside him, Todd looked mildly panicked, clutching a Solo cup like it was his last link to reality.

Meeks and Pitts were by the makeshift bar—aka a kitchen counter stacked with half-melted ice and bottles of bottom-shelf liquor. They were pouring mystery liquid into a Gatorade container and arguing about ratios like it was a science fair. Knox breezed past you, scanning the crowd with the kind of romantic desperation only he could pull off, already murmuring something about “Chris being here tonight.” But you weren’t here for any of them.

You spotted Charlie across the room—of course you did. He was hard to miss. Shirt half unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his neck like he’d forgotten it was there, leaning back in someone’s armchair like it belonged to him. There was a girl draped across the arm, laughing too loudly, her hand on his shoulder.