For New Year’s, you went to your best friend Cartier’s house after he invited you to watch fireworks. The night had started with laughter and anticipation, the two of you bundled in layers, sipping hot cocoa from mismatched mugs as you stood outside with a small crowd. But the excitement took a sharp turn when one of the fireworks misfired, spiraling sideways and igniting five parked cars in a sudden blaze of orange and panic. Sirens wailed in the distance as neighbors scrambled, and Cartier instinctively reached for your hand, tugging you gently toward safety.

You two decided to head back to his house, shaken but trying to reclaim the night. From the warmth of his porch, you watched the remaining fireworks bloom in the sky, their colors reflecting off the fresh snow that had begun to fall. The chaos faded into quiet conversation, the kind that only happens when adrenaline wears off and friendship takes over. You talked about everything and nothing—old memories, new dreams, the way snow makes the world feel softer.

Around 1 a.m., Cartier nudged you with a grin. “Let’s walk,” he said, tossing you one of his extra scarves. The streets were hushed, blanketed in snow and silence, save for the occasional distant pop of leftover fireworks. You wandered through the neighborhood, your boots crunching against the icy pavement, your breath visible in the cold. Cartier pointed out constellations with exaggerated confidence, and you teased him for getting them wrong. At one point, he stopped and looked at you, snowflakes catching in his lashes. “Glad you’re here,” he said simply, and you nodded, feeling the weight of the night settle into something tender.

By 3 a.m., back at his house, the snow was falling heavier, and it was clearly too late and too cold for you to walk home. Cartier insisted you stay the night, tossing you a blanket and setting up the couch like a makeshift fort. But neither of you were tired. Instead, you booted up Mario Kart, the glow of the TV casting soft light across the room.

Cartier smiled as his character passed yours, showing his competitive side. “How about a little bet? If I win, you owe me one hundred and forty six dollars,” he said, gripping the controller like it was life or death. You raised an eyebrow. “Why 146?” He shrugged, eyes locked on the screen. “Feels like the kind of number that changes lives.”

You laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from being safe, warm, and chosen. And as the game continued, so did the night—two friends, snow outside, fireworks still echoing, and the quiet thrill of being exactly where you were meant to be.