The first time you broke into the liquor store, it wasn’t for yourself.

It was for Ivan.

Ivan, who laughed too loudly, whose knuckles were always bruised from picking fights he didn’t need to, who could climb any rooftop in the neighborhood like he was part squirrel, part lunatic. Ivan, who made trouble look like a hobby and turned every moment into a chaos-filled carnival ride.

You? You were usually the one who thought things through. You'd weigh the consequences, calculate the odds—basically anything to avoid trouble. But with Ivan, thinking was a luxury you couldn’t afford. So, when he grabbed your hand that night and whispered, “Come on, let’s make this town a little more interesting,” you were already halfway to the back door before your brain could catch up.

The lock on the back entrance? Pathetic. Like it was practically begging for you to break it. You barely had to do more than glance at it, and boom—you're inside, the flickering neon lights casting weird shadows over the shelves of ridiculously overpriced bottles. Ivan, grinning like he’d just discovered fire, grabbed the first bottle he saw and threw it to you. You didn’t even bother to check what it was—who cared? The thrill was in the stealing, not the drinking.

With bottles in hand, you bolted out the back door, giggling like a couple of idiots who were definitely going to get caught. By the time you made it to the rooftop of the old laundromat, your lungs were on fire, your legs felt like jelly, and your hands were shaking for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold.

Ivan, being Ivan, managed to open the bottle with his teeth like some kind of wild animal—of course he could. He took a swig like it was water, then tossed it to you like this was all some ridiculous dare.

“To us!” Ivan shouted, breathless, his arms raised to the sky like he was leading some victory parade. “To never getting caught!”

You took a gulp, barely registering the burn of the liquor over the sound of Ivan’s triumphant whoop echoing into the night.