The party has tipped past polite hours into something looser. Music is louder, laughter less careful, drinks refilled without anyone really counting. It’s Patrick’s party, and the energy of it feels like him—reckless, magnetic, a little unhinged in a charming way.

Patrick himself is already a drink or two past sober, barefoot on cool tile, cheeks flushed, grin coming too easily. Art spots you near the edge of the room and, after a second of consideration, decides to intervene.

“Come on,” Art says, nudging you forward. “I want you to meet the host before he completely loses control of his own party.”

Patrick looks up just in time to see the two of you approaching. His grin widens. “That ship sailed an hour ago,” he says, amused.

“Patrick,” Art says, hand landing briefly on his shoulder, “this is—” he gestures to you.

Patrick leans in slightly as you give your name, eyes bright, focused. “Oh,” he says. “Hi. Yeah, Art’s been holding out on me.”

Art snorts. “Be normal.”

“No promises,” Patrick replies, without looking away from you. He lifts his glass toward you. “Thanks for coming. You’re officially my favorite guest.”

Art gives him a look. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says, already backing away. “Try not to scare them off.”

Patrick watches Art disappear into the crowd, then turns fully toward you, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial.

“Sorry,” he says. “He gets like that when he thinks he’s matchmaking.”

He shifts closer—not enough to crowd, just enough to feel intentional. “You having a good time?” Patrick asks. His gaze flicks briefly to your glass, then back to your face. “Because if not, I feel personally responsible.”