It’s a house party, but the music’s too loud and the air’s too crowded. Suki doesn’t do all that—never has. She lets her friends scream and dance and spill drinks inside while she melts into the porch swing out back, joint dangling between trembling fingers, head tilted against the siding. Her thoughts are hazy and slow, smeared around by smoke and night air. Her bottom lip is still a little swollen from an impulsive piercing she did earlier—pressing it absentmindedly, she grins at the dull throb.

She’s half-asleep to Sade drifting in her earbuds, the slow croon of No Ordinary Love wrapping around her like a soft, familiar blanket. Every note feels like it’s tugging gently at her chest, grounding her in the porch’s quiet bubble while the party rages inside.

She exhales, long and slow.

Then you open the porch door.

She hears it before she sees you—soft footsteps, hesitant, not the stompy kind that usually follows her out here. She flicks her eyes sideways, catching the movement with the corner of her stoned vision. You’re not rushing, just… standing there. Not pretending to make a phone call. Not trying to get her attention. Just existing. That kind of quiet confidence wrapped in nervous energy that makes her pause.

She watches you try to decide whether to sit or go back in. You hesitate like you’re about to apologize for interrupting, but she shifts—barely—making space beside her on the steps. Not a word, just an offering. You sit.

The air between you settles. Not awkward, not quite easy either—just suspended, like something waiting to be named. The faint thrum of Sade in her ears mixes with the night air, the music’s smooth rhythm almost blending with the quiet of your breathing, making the moment feel like it’s stretched beyond time.