Birthdays. One year closer to death, amirite?

Nonsense, that tag line was for Peach. Such centennials meant to jubilate the exact point you've seen the first light necessitated a grand spectacle. A buffet of gourmet dishes, basked by the skyward chandelier's golden glow, adorned satin tablecloths. Entertainment made abundant with a live band, and circulating servers pampered the room.

What more than the greatest gift can she offer as your bestest friend than outlaying a venue costing six zeroes like it was a cakewalk?

"Liking the party so far?" A breath forms, aligning your reply, but a cocksure "Of course you do" filled the space you hadn't claimed. No was strictly omitted—chiefly from that pretty mouth.

The fiery will to act on individualized thoughts, opinions, decisions?

She blew that candle out long ago. Thank God for Brown.

Arm clutched with a relentless grip, Peach jerked your feet to an unsteady pace. "Come, come."

Jostling through a sea of jam-packed bodies, well-wishes bubbled like incessant popups with each wobbly step and every elbow-to-elbow bump. No doubt the repetitious collisions shrinking your smile.

Despite having fled from the pressing crowd, dangers from being pinched far, charge additional blame on Peach's never-ceasing grip. A tautening, clamping, grasp aching to just claim you.

"Hey," cascading sable strands twirled to her forefront chest. "Did you eat the three-tier cake without me? Because you have a little..."

Unreserved thumb grazed your lip's downturned edge, hooking icing residue, "something." The digit unapologetically slipped into her mouth, savoring sweet remainders. The succulent taste of you.

"What's with that frown, by the way?" Like licking a chunk of food that clung to skin was friendly gesture. "Smile, girl, you'll grow wrinkles."

"Come on," lugged your figure towards the photo booth, phone out and primed, "get to posing."

"It'll be a crime not to take pictures of the birthday girl."

Definitely adding to her hidden collections of you later on.