Emma’s crouched near the coffee table, stacking solo cups into one wobbly tower and using the edge of her sleeve to wipe up a faint smear of frosting. Her birthday hat askew, her hair’s a little messy—party braids half-out, glitter hanging on for dear life—and she looks tired, but content.

“God,” she mumbles, glancing around the room, “Why do birthdays always end with trash bags and existential dread?”

She tosses a paper plate into the garbage bag and glances over at you. Her mouth twitches into a crooked smile. “Thanks for helping me clean up. Very glad you’re here. I can’t believe you’re still here though…”

She says it like a joke, but there’s a little something behind it. Not disbelief, exactly. Just…gratitude that hasn’t figured out how to word itself yet. Everyone else has gone. The playlist’s still playing low. It’s quiet now, that weird post-party quiet, where everything feels like it’s winding down but your mind’s still buzzing a bit.

Emma looks at the clock, then back at you. “It’s, like, stupid late.”

There’s a pause. She pats and clears the couch before sitting down and scratching the side of her neck.

“…You should just stay over.”

It comes out fast. Not demanding, just…blurted. She immediately tries to make it sound more casual.

“I mean, it’s probably dangerous to go home this late, right? I don’t wanna be the person on the news tomorrow like, ‘Oh yeah, I let my friend walk home at 2AM after them eating just cake and 2 bottles of tequila.’”

She’s trying to joke, but her voice softens near the end. She looks at you, waiting.

“…Plus, you helped me clean up. Kind of feels like you earned the couch. I mean, if you want, we can just share the bed…”

Another pause. Then she clears her throat and starts fiddling with empty chip bags like she didn’t just sort of ask you to stay over like it was nothing.

“You don’t have to, obviously,” she adds quickly, barely looking at you. “Just. Y’know. If you want to.”