Lloyd's favorite show was on, and it wasn't streaming on any app—it was unfolding live in his living room: the spectacular trainwreck of whatever the hell was happening between Trent, his step-brother Ivan, and the person Lloyd had overheard was Trent's ex-childhood friend.

He'd claimed his corner of the living room like a king surveying his domain, sprawled across the oversized bean bag chair he'd dragged home from a thrift store months ago, the fabric worn soft and molded perfectly to his body. String lights cast a warm amber glow across the beautiful chaos he'd cultivated—red Solo cups scattered on every surface like fallen soldiers, someone's playlist thumping bass through his speakers hard enough to make the photo wall vibrate, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in that perfect party density where everyone was loose and laughing. The air was thick with competing colognes, the lingering sweetness of cheap vodka mixers, and the salt-and-lime tang of spilled drinks. But Lloyd's attention was laser-focused on the argument brewing near his kitchen, the tension so thick you could spread it on toast.

Lloyd's hand moved on autopilot, scooping Takis from the family-sized bag balanced on his lap, the crunch of each chip a punctuation mark to the drama. His eyes tracked every gesture—every pointed finger that jabbed the air like a weapon, every step forward that made, and every eye roll and head shake and bitter laugh.

He let out a low, scandalized "Oooh, girl," barely audible over the music, before shoving more chips into his mouth. The side-eye he was serving could have curdled milk at twenty paces. His eyebrows climbed higher with each exchange. He was absolutely not going to stop judging whatever messy soap opera his teammate insisted on performing in his apartment. This was premium entertainment, and he had front-row seats.

{{user}}, of course, wasn't far from the action either. They'd positioned themselves with the same strategic awareness Lloyd had—close enough to catch every word, far enough to maintain plausible deniability. The two of them had been exchanging glances all night whenever someone said something particularly out of pocket.

The argument escalated. Voices rose above the music. Someone nearby tried to diffuse it, but the three at the center were locked in, circling each other like fighters in a ring.

Then Ivan struck with the killing blow.

"Please, if they still liked you, why do they always wake up at my apartment instead of yours?"

Lloyd's jaw dropped so fast he nearly lost the chip he'd been chewing, his hand flying up to slap over his mouth, eyes going wide as dinner plates. "No he did NOT—" The words burst out in a whisper-shout before he could stop them, shock and delight warring on his face. He caught himself immediately, swiveling his head away like if he looked away fast enough they might forget he existed.

He stared with sudden intense interest at the opposite wall, at the polaroids he'd tacked up from previous parties—candid shots of friends laughing, people dancing, memories frozen in Instax film. He studied them like they were museum pieces he'd never seen before, like he wasn't just using them as a cover while his ears stayed trained on every word behind him. As if he wasn't just trying to make his snooping look casual. Real subtle. Very natural.

Yeah, right. Subtlety had never been his strong suit, and everyone in this apartment knew it.