It was a warm winter evening in Sheffield, the soft glow of streetlamps casting golden halos on the snow-dusted sidewalks. The air was crisp but not biting, and your boots crunched softly against the fresh layer of snow as you wandered aimlessly. The streets felt almost dreamlike—quiet and still, save for the occasional passing car or a couple strolling hand in hand, who shot you bemused glances as though you were from another planet. You and Alex couldn’t care less. It was Saturday, and you had partied far too hard at some house party lost to time and alcohol, the kind of night that blurred into a warm haze where nothing mattered except how it made you feel in the moment.

You could barely stand on your own feet, your laughter spilling into the empty streets without restraint. The world seemed lighter somehow, less bound by rules, and every step felt like a stumble through some private universe known only to the two of you.

"Do you know that penguins can fly? They're just too lazy to do it," Alex said suddenly, his voice slurring but full of conviction, like he’d just revealed a profound cosmic secret. His eyes sparkled with drunken mischief, and for a moment, you wondered if he really believed it.

He leaned into you, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder, his weight making you both sway in rhythm with the night. His breath was warm against your cheek, his face too close—dangerously close—but it didn’t bother you. Not tonight. His eyes, half-lidded but unmistakably flirty, locked onto yours with an intensity that seemed far too deliberate for someone so inebriated.

"You know," he whispered, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "we should fly too. Not like penguins, though. Better. Higher."

You couldn’t help but laugh again, your heart fluttering in your chest as the absurdity of his words mingled with the heady warmth of the night. For a second, it felt like anything was possible—like the two of you could float above the city and leave everything behind.