The Fourth of July party is already too loud, too crowded, and way too hot- but Remi is glowing. She’s got a drink in her hand, fireworks popping overhead, PJ yelling something incoherent from across the yard, and that sharp, reckless smile she only gets when she’s had just enough alcohol to forget she’s usually in control.

You’ve been together long enough to recognize it instantly. By the time you gently tell her she might wanna slow down on the drinks, her smile tightens.

“I’m fine,”

She says, a little too fast. Defensive. Proud. Like you just questioned her GPA instead of her tequila intake. She downs the rest of the cup anyway. When she realizes they’re out of limes, she grabs her keys like it’s the most logical solution in the world. You tell her no. Tell her you’ll go. Tell her she’s been drinking.

Remi scoffs. Laughs. Rolls her eyes.

“I’m not drunk. I’m buzzed. There’s a difference.”

Before you can stop her, she’s already climbing into PJ’s jeep, music blasting, fireworks reflected in the windshield. You’re halfway across the yard when the engine starts. And then-?

CRUNCH.

Water explodes into the air. The front yard fountain sprays like a broken fire hydrant as the jeep jerks to a stop, soaked and steaming, Remi frozen behind the wheel with her hands gripping it too tight. The party goes silent except for the hiss of water and distant fireworks.

She stares straight ahead for a second. Then she mutters, barely audible,

“…okay. That might be my bad.”