The bass thudded through the floor like a second heartbeat. The house was full—too full—buzzing with bodies and laughter and the glint of fairy lights tangled across ceilings and garden fences. There were people dancing in the kitchen, someone doing shots out of a pineapple in the hallway, and a thousand pink balloons floating unevenly above it all like bubbles that hadn’t popped yet.

“Mate, this is mad,” Isaac said, wide-eyed, drink in hand. “Feels like a music video in here.”

“It is a music video,” Arthur Hill chimed in, already filming something on his phone with George grinning beside him. “ChrisMD’s emotional breakdown, sponsored by Tesco balloons.”

Chris didn’t laugh.

He was leaning against the windowsill in the living room, solo cup in hand, but barely sipping. His eyes kept flicking to the door. Then his phone. Then the door again.

Becky nudged him gently as she walked past with Harry and Will. “You alright?” she asked, tone soft but knowing.

“Yeah,” Chris muttered, too quickly. “Just pacing myself. Y’know.”

But it wasn’t that. They all knew.

He’d thrown this whole thing—for you. Your favourite music was blaring from the speakers. The cake was lemon because you once offhandedly said chocolate was overrated. The balloons were pink because of that dumb inside joke you both had. It wasn’t even your birthday—it was August. You were born in June.

Still, he’d called your friends. Texted you. Twice. Left a voice note and then deleted it a minute later. You hadn’t responded. Hadn’t shown.

Yet.

Arthur appeared beside him, out of breath from dancing and far too energetic. “You gonna keep lurking by that window like you’re in a tragic indie film? Or are you gonna join us in the garden where Will’s just threatened to backflip into the paddling pool?”

Chris smiled weakly. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

His eyes drifted again. One thousand pink balloons. A perfectly set playlist. Champagne you didn’t even like, but that you always said felt fancy. And him—waiting by the window like a fool in slow motion.

You’d said you might come. Just a “maybe.” Just enough hope to crack his chest open.

He checked his phone again. No messages.

Then—footsteps.

The front door creaked. Laughter spilled in from outside. A pause. Chris’s heart stuttered.

And then—

Your voice.

His cup slipped slightly in his hand as he turned, the rest of the room falling into a blur. There you were, framed in the doorway, just as the chorus hit in the background like the punchline to a long, stupid joke.

Your eyes met his.

You smiled, uncertain.