The bass from the speakers was vibrating through the floorboards, but for Chris, the world had narrowed down to the soft fabric of your sweater and the persistent heavy feeling in his eyelids. He looked like a bright splash of color against the dark walls of the living room, swallowed up by an oversized yellow hoodie.

The hood was pulled low over his forehead, shadowing his face and muffling the chaotic mix of laughter and music surrounding you both. Chris shifted his weight, letting out a long, jagged yawn that seemed to shake his entire frame. Without a word, he let his head drop, his temple landing heavily against your shoulder.

"{{user}}," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the thick cotton of his hood. "I'm literally hitting a wall. My brain is at two percent. He nudged his face closer to your neck, seeking a bit of quiet in the middle of the noise. You could feel the warmth radiating off him—the "Sturniolo heater" effect was in full swing.

"We’ve been here for, like, forty minutes," he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. "That’s basically a lifetime. Can we please just go? I want to be in bed, I want to be wearing sweatpants, and I want to not hear this damn specific remix of this song ever again." He reached out, blindly catching your hand with his and giving it a desperate, rhythmic squeeze.