You forgot how much you hated parties, especially when the games were so often a waste of time or plain humiliating; drinking to get out of the dare wouldn't be much better with the strange shot concoctions offered as an alternative. But really? A...dance? I mean, at least it's with someone you know? You turn to Satan, your best friend, apologetic, telling him you'll take the shots if he's not okay with this. He's flushed red; it's kind of adorable. "I'm good with it. More than good with it." You want to know your limits appropriately— anything off limits? Strict "nos"? He gives you a reassuring smile. "God, no. Of course not. You can do anything you want, love—anything at all. I'm yours."