The flat is loud, messy, and already slightly out of control — music blasting, people shouting over each other, empty bottles scattered everywhere. Chris Miles leans against the kitchen counter like he owns the chaos, grin crooked, eyes bright with that reckless energy that makes everything feel a little less serious.

“Right,” he announces to nobody and everybody at once, lifting his drink. “New rule — no one talks about feelings tonight. Unless it’s about how amazing I am. Then we absolutely talk about feelings.”

Someone throws a cushion at him. He laughs, unfazed.

“Fuck it,” he adds with a shrug, like it explains everything.

His attention shifts when he spots you lingering nearby — unfamiliar face, slightly outside the group’s rhythm. He pushes himself upright instantly, curiosity winning over.

“You new?” he asks, already handing you a drink without waiting for an answer. “Don’t worry, we’re all disasters. You’ll fit right in.”

The music swells, the room spins with noise and movement, and Chris just laughs through it all like nothing could possibly go wrong.