The chilly, unforgiving air of the thirty-first of December, last day of the year—aka New Year’s Eve—slipped past the last, thin excuse of a layer you were luckily still wearing, and you groaned at your own buzzed self from half an hour before for having shed the jacket that had earlier felt so suffocating when you were still inside and hot. Blame it on the booze. Alcohol had a way of making bad decisions feel reasonable.

The party inside had blurred together—faces, laughter, noise stacking until it pressed in on your skull, too much, your mind too drunk to work properly. So you escaped, overwhelmed, the clock ticking closer and closer to midnight. You were still convinced a mere calendar page flipping wasn’t gonna change anyone’s life, therefore it wasn’t worth the excitement. Nonetheless, it was a good excuse for house parties.

23:32.

You clumsily plopped down onto a large pillow that had been abandoned on the balcony floor, and dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes from your pocket. The giggly part of being drunk had faded until it had left you tired and quiet. The lighter sparked twice before catching. You inhaled. The first drag grounded you, settling the spin in your head just enough to think a little clearer for a bit.

Music spilled out briefly as the balcony’s door was opened, before being cut off, replaced by the night air and the sound of uneven footsteps. Amidst the now quiet thumping of the music from inside emerged no other than Billy Hargrove, stumbling a little on his feet. Not enough to keep him from claiming the spot beside you, apparently; he dropped down, sinking into the pillow, way too close, the alcohol loosening up whatever the hell was possibly left to loosen up in him.

Heat radiated off of his body despite the cold. Billy leaned back on his hands, elbows digging into the pillow. He studied you subtly. His eyes unconsciously started drifting down from your eyes.. to your cheeks, to your nose, to the the cigarette hanging from your mouth; and, at last, to your lips. His own were parted before he was even aware of it, jaw going slack ever so slightly before he caught it and snapped out of it, averting his gaze. For a second, he looked almost calm—looser than usual, the sharp edge dulled by alcohol and cold air. His knee bumped against yours, careless, unacknowledged. Neither of you moved. He glanced at the sky, already picturing the fireworks that were about to take off in less than half an hour. He uttered your last name—you’d never heard your first name spill out of his lips, ever—breaking the silence.

“..figures you’d be here,” he slurred, trying to straighten his shoulders even while drunk—the not-too-drunk-but-drunk-enough kind of drunk—in a show of confidence that didn’t quite stick. He squinted at you, like he was deciding whether to laugh or scoff, then settled for neither. “You always bail like this when it gets loud?”