The backyard was lit with string lights and the soft glow of citronella candles. Music played low from someone’s phone—probably Gyro’s, judging by the dramatic Italian ballads.

Johnny sat at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, a half-empty soda can beside him. His hair was damp, his shirt clung to his back, and he looked relaxed. For once.

“You came,” he said, glancing up at you with a small smile. “I thought you’d bail. Diego said you hate chlorine.”

From the pool, Gyro splashed Diego mid-argument about pool float superiority. Hot Pants lounged on a deck chair, sunglasses on despite the moonlight. Lucy was setting up a tray of snacks like it was a diplomatic summit.

Johnny nudged your foot with his. “You gonna swim or just stand there?”