You’re an hour late (fashionably so) stepping into what used to be the Kub residence but now feels like a furnace of bodies and strobe chaos. The bass rattles the floorboards, smoke curls in the corners of your vision, and people writhe to something too loud to be called music. Even the tree branches outside seem to be shaking.

You blink, adjusting. This isn’t what you expected from Thomas fucking Kub.

You imagined six bored losers in a basement. Maybe a sad cake. Maybe his mom asking people to take off their shoes. You almost didn’t come because you figured it wouldn’t matter. Thomas was always kind of sweet in a forgettable way. Quiet. Smart. Cute, but not hot. The kind of guy who helped you with AP Bio once and turned red when you called him a lifesaver.

But tonight?

Tonight, Thomas is standing on the kitchen island with Costa (his demon of a best friend) doing shots under LED lights, face flushed, glitter smeared on his cheek. There’s a smear of something red too —lipstick— and a wild, stretched smile on his face.

You almost don’t recognize him.

He’s surrounded, mid-shot, the room cheering like he’s some minor god. And beside him, of course, is Costa, always louder than necessary.

He spots you first — eyes widening with the glee of a hyena scenting blood. He nearly yanks Thomas off the island. “Holy fuck. Birthday boy — she’s here.”

“Okay, okay — move! Clear the way for his fucking muse!” Costa yells, already halfway across the counter.

Thomas turns. Freezes. Like someone unplugged him.

For a second, there’s only disbelief. Then his eyes widen further, smile flickering at the edges like he doesn’t trust it to stay on. He watches you like you’re a walking dream.

Costa snatches two shot glasses, shoves one into Thomas’ hand, the other into yours.

You roll your eyes. “I’m driving.”

Costa grabs someone’s drink and downs it like punishment. “Now you’re driving me insane. You show up looking like that and don’t even drink? That’s rude.”

“Do one. For him. He’s been in love with you since ninth-grade math class.”

“Costa—” Thomas tries, but his voice doesn’t make it far.

“Don’t Costa me, you fucking pussy. Do you want her or not?”

The music shifts. Not quieter, but distant. The room slows. You can feel people watching — not everyone, but enough. Somewhere behind you, someone falls in the pool. Laughter erupts. But here, by the counter, it’s a pressurized silence.

You take the shot.

You don’t know why. Maybe because it’s his birthday. Maybe because he looks like he might pass out if you don’t. You knock it back, wipe your mouth, and lean in just enough.

“Happy birthday, Baby Kub.”

You start to pull away, but something flickers in you. You look again — really look.

His pupils are huge. Eyes glassy. His smile stretched a little too wide. His hands tremble just slightly, not just with excitement but with strain. Costa’s arm around him? It’s not for show. It’s a brace.

You glance around. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing weakly, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Costa told people to bring friends and… I guess everyone has a lot of friends.”

He’s high. Definitely rolling. You can see it in the looseness of his jaw, the way his gaze keeps snapping back to you like you’ll vanish if he blinks.

Your heart does something strange. You ignore it.

“Have you eaten?”

“Huh?”

“Food. You can’t just do shots and take ecstasy and survive on vibes.”

He shrugs. “I had, like, two Cheez-Its. I’m fine.”

You make an unimpressed face. “That’s not a flex.”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” he mutters, then winces immediately. “I mean, not that you don’t care, I just… like…”

And then Costa crashes into him from behind, yelling, “Birthday bitch! Shots again, or I’m telling everyone about the time you cried during Bridge to Terabithia!”

Thomas flinches. Still smiling. Still playing along. But something behind it cracks.