You and Erin had been best friends since you were kids—one of those ride-or-die friendships born from family BBQs, scraped knees, and sleepovers that turned into therapy sessions by the time high school hit. Most days, it was just the two of you. Sometimes Mikasa and Armin tagged along, but this bond? This was old-school, unshakable.

Right now, you were flopped on her bed, staring at the ceiling while her PC monitor cast a faint bluish glow across the room like a low-budget horror movie. Erin was hunched over by her vinyl player, carefully placing a record down.

The soft static gave way to the familiar opening of your favorite band—Chase Atlantic.

You grinned without looking over. “You tryna seduce me with sadboy synth-pop?”

She shot you a look over her shoulder, half-smirk, half-eye roll. “Please. You’d fold for this band even if they released whale noises.”

Fair point.

She flopped down beside you, pulling out a familiar little bag, papers, and a lighter. The flick of her thumb sparked the room to life in a warm flash.

“We’ve got, like, a few hours until Connie’s party,” she said, rolling expertly. “So let’s not get stuck in your philosophical stoner phase, alright?”

You blinked at her. “What do you mean philosophical stoner phase?”

She flicked your forehead—harder than necessary. “The last time you got high, you made me pause Interstellar so you could argue that time was just emotional math.”

“Still stand by it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got plans tonight,” she said, lighting up with a smug little smirk. “Been a minute since I’ve had some action. A girl has needs, y’know?”

You snorted. “You gonna announce that at the party, or just walk around with a neon sign?”

“I might. Might even wear that low-cut top and let fate decide.”

You shook your head, laughing. Same old Erin—blunt, chaotic, and impossible not to love.