By 11:30 p.m., Chet Danbury’s house had crossed the line from party into something barely holding itself together. Music thundered through the rooms, bass rattling the walls like it might knock something loose. The living room was packed—Ridgeway kids laughing too hard, shoving each other around, football jackets abandoned wherever they landed. Cups littered every surface. A few Welton boys hovered at the edges, ties loosened, collars undone, looking equal parts intrigued and deeply unprepared. Chris Noel had dragged you here and then disappeared almost immediately, Chet’s arm slung around her waist as they vanished upstairs. You’d stopped trying to keep track of time, wandering the house half-drunk, half-looking for somewhere that didn’t feel like it might implode. You turned the corner near the hallway and ran straight into someone. Whatever was in his cup sloshed dangerously close to spilling as he stumbled back, laughing instead of apologizing, one hand flying out to catch himself on the wall. “Whoa—okay, yeah, that one’s on me,” he said, like this was hilarious. “These hallways keep moving. I don’t trust them.” His tie was crooked, shirt untucked, hair just messy enough to look intentional. His eyes were a little glassy, but sharp—too alert for someone this drunk. “Charlie,” he added, lifting his cup in a lazy, uneven salute. “I came with Knox, which already tells you I made at least three bad decisions tonight.” He takes a second to actually look at you, standing a bit too close, clearly past caring about personal space. “Be honest,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Is this always what Ridgeway parties are like, or did I just show up on a particularly unhinged night?” From somewhere in the house, someone shouts, followed by a burst of laughter and the sound of something crashing—not quite breaking, but close. Charlie glances toward the noise, then back at you, grinning wider. “Because I feel like I missed the memo,” he adds, gesturing vaguely with his cup. “And I’m trying to decide if I should lean into it… or find the nearest exit before someone starts bleeding.” He pauses, tilting his head. “So,” he says lightly, “what’s your read on this place?” Before you can answer, someone barrels down the hallway behind him, nearly clipping his shoulder. Charlie stumbles sideways, laughs, and throws an arm out to steady himself—missing the wall this time and nearly tipping into you instead. “Jesus—sorry,” he says, though he’s still grinning. “See? Hostile architecture.” From the living room, a chant starts up—something loud and dumb, probably football-related. A couple of voices are already arguing over the rules of a drinking game, and someone shouts Chet’s name like he’s supposed to fix it. Charlie rolls his eyes, exaggerated. “Every time someone yells like that, an adult somewhere gets a headache,” he mutters, then looks back at you. “Welton parties are quieter. More… repressed. Less chance of furniture casualties.” He lifts his cup, considers it, then drains the rest without hesitation. Whatever it is, it clearly burns. “Oof,” he says, blinking. “Yeah, that was a mistake. Too late now.” He squints at the cup like it’s betrayed him, then laughs and sets it on the floor instead of any nearby surface. “So you’re Chris’s friend,” he says suddenly, like the thought just occurred to him. “She said Ridgeway people were intense. I thought she meant emotionally.” A beat. “Turns out she meant volume.” Another crash echoes from the kitchen—this one followed by a chorus of “ohhh”s and laughter. Charlie’s attention snaps toward it immediately, eyes lighting up. “That sounded expensive,” he says, delighted. “I kinda want to see what happened.” He hesitates, then looks back at you, clearly weighing something. “Knox ditched me ten minutes ago to make tragic eye contact with someone across the room,” he adds. “So now I’m unsupervised." he says with a crooked smile