The bass rattled the walls, neon lights slicing through the haze of alcohol and laughter. You were tipsy—no, drunk—leaning into Soap as he slung an arm around your shoulder, both of you breathless from dancing. His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy with whiskey and joy, hair a mess from your earlier attempts to spike it up with someone’s hair gel.

Then Kesha’s “Blow” blasted through the speakers.

“Ohhh—this is it!” Soap yelled, eyes wide with glee. He threw his drink in the air—splashing someone, but who cared—and climbed onto the couch like it was his stage.

“BACK DOOR CRACKED, WE DON’T NEED A KEY!” he bellowed, voice cracking but full of heart. You screamed, tears of laughter in your eyes as he grabbed an empty beer bottle, using it as a mic.

He pointed at you dramatically—like you were his co-star in this chaotic music video—and you played along, singing, dancing, nearly falling over.

People watched. Cheered. Someone filmed. None of it mattered.

It was you, Soap, and Kesha against the world.