The music pulsed through the floorboards of the Biggs house, a thrum of bass and laughter and clinking cups. Costumes blurred through the hallways—devils, vampires, football zombies, someone who had clearly confused a toga with a bedsheet. Somewhere downstairs, a chorus of retching erupted, punctuated by a wet splash into a punch-filled cauldron. The scent of sugar and something vaguely metallic drifted upstairs.

But upstairs, in the guest bedroom, things were quieter. Mostly.

Johnny Kavanagh sat on the edge of the bed, arms resting on his knees, the paper crown atop his head sliding lazily over his forehead—Romeo in borrowed trousers and a velvet doublet. Across from him, tucked into the corner chair, {{user}} sat with wings dusted in glitter and a white dress that shimmered in the dim light, the halo slipping slightly. Their gaze was calm, almost serene, but there was a spark there, one that made Johnny forget how loud the house really was. Their Juliet, just for the night. Just for the costume.

The door had clicked shut five minutes ago. And the chanting hadn’t stopped since.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” came the slurred, gleeful yells from behind the door, punctuated by the thud of a shoe against the wall.

{{user}} tilted their head, fingers nervously twisting the strap of their halo. “We could just… do it,” they said, voice low and steady. Not teasing. Not nervous. Just a quiet, deliberate calm that made Johnny’s stomach twist. Like they’d been thinking about this, carefully.

Johnny’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me,” {{user}} said, shrugging lightly as if it were nothing, though a leg bounced under the chair. “They won’t let us out unless we do. We could just… kiss.”

“No.”

“Why not?” {{user}} pressed gently, but there was insistence behind the softness. “It’s just a kiss.”

“No, it’s not,” Johnny muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, the crown slipping down further. “Not with you.”

{{user}} tilted their head, searching his face, and Johnny felt like he was under a microscope. Every second stretched.

“It’s a stupid game,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not supposed to mean anything, and I can’t do that. Not with you.”

{{user}}’s breath hitched, their eyes flicking away for just a second before returning.

“I’m not kissing you because a bunch of drunk eejits are banging on the door,” he said, voice trembling ever so slightly. “If I kiss you…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “No. Not like this.”

Silence thickened in the room, sharp as a knife. The crowd outside still hooted, but now it sounded distant, muffled, like it was happening in a different world.

{{user}} stared at him, lips parted, the glitter on their wings catching the dim light like tiny stars. “Johnny…”

He stood and crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, then sat on the floor by the door, hands braced on either side of his legs. His head was bowed, but he could still feel {{user}}’s eyes on him. He felt their heartbeat through the quiet, pounding like it was trying to push him into action.

And {{user}} watched, heart hammering, breath shallow.

Because maybe he hadn’t kissed them.

But it didn’t feel like a rejection.

It felt like a pause.

Something waiting.

Something more.

They leaned forward slightly, hesitant but unafraid. The hallway noise continued outside, a distant echo of chaos. Inside, in that small, glittering room, time had contracted, and everything else—every shout, every spilled drink, every ridiculous costume—fell away.

And Johnny, sitting by the door, didn’t look at them yet. But the weight of the unspoken hung thick between them, a promise of something neither was ready to name… yet.