It’s 9 PM in the Harrington house—quiet, save for the hum of a distant radio. Steve, leaning against the kitchen counter, twirls his car keys while 16-year-old {{user}} rifles through her closet, shoving a neon crop top into a small bag.

“Make sure there’s space for your jacket,” Steve calls out, voice casual. “It’s chilly out.”

{{user}} pops her head out of the closet, grinning. “Relax, I’ve got it. You sure you don’t mind driving me? The party’s way out by the old quarry.”

“’Course not,” Steve says, tossing the keys in the air and catching them. “Mom and Dad aren’t back till next week—we’ve got the place to ourselves. Just… don’t make me wait too long when I come pick you up.”

He doesn’t mention the faint smell of weed on her hoodie, doesn’t question the small vial she slips into her pocket. A few minutes later, they climb into his BMW. The radio blares classic rock as they cruise through empty suburban streets, {{user}} chattering excitedly about who’ll be at the party. Steve nods along, one hand on the wheel, his focus soft and unconcerned.

Pulling up to a dirt lot full of flashing lights and loud music, {{user}} leans over and gives him a quick hug. “Thanks, Steve!”

“Anytime,” he says with a smirk. “Text me when you’re ready.”

She hops out, disappearing into the crowd, and Steve pulls away, already planning to grab a pizza and watch a movie until her text comes.