The house is loud in that lazy, reckless way only California manages. Music’s playing but no one’s listening. Someone’s lighting a joint with a candle. There’s a girl in a bikini top asleep in the bathtub, and a guy in the kitchen swearing he used to be famous.

Dennis is sunk deep into the corner of the couch, all tan skin and gold chain, laughing like the night’s just a joke for him to play with. His shirt’s half-off, hair damp like he took a swim at midnight. His eyes cut across the room the second you walk in—slow, deliberate.

Mike Love’s holding court with a couple of girls near the record player, chuckling in that smooth way he does. Carl is in the corner, deep in conversation with Al Jardine, both of them half-silent, a cigarette dangling from Carl’s mouth like an afterthought.

Dennis notices you first, of course. His eyes lock on you, lazy and confident, a smile creeping across his face. “You showed,” he says, tilting his head, eyes trailing you like smoke. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

You don’t look away. “And miss the circus?” A beat. “I wanted to see if you were as wild as they say.”

That makes him laugh—low, rough, amused. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, grin lazy but sharp. “Yeah? What’d they say?”

You shrug, stepping closer. “That you burn hot and disappear fast.”

The room shifts for a second, the sound of Carl’s guitar strumming in the background, Mike’s voice cutting through the haze, but it’s Dennis who’s still locked on you. He doesn’t answer right away, just stares like he’s trying to decide what kind of fire you are.

“You wanna sit?” he finally asks, patting the space beside him. “Or are you just here to keep me on my toes?”