Fireworks are already cracking across the sky, loud and glittering, the whole neighborhood buzzing with that Fourth of July chaos- music blaring, someone’s cheap speaker distorting bass, laughter drifting through warm summer air. The scent of smoke, grilled food, and citrus hangs everywhere. Remi is on her… honestly, who’s counting anymore — fifth? sixth? margarita.

Not that she looks sloppy. She never does. Even with a plastic cup dangling loosely from her fingers, she still has that composed, effortless presence. Dark hair catching flashes of light, sharp brown eyes just a little glassy now, movements slightly slower but still full of that restless, tightly wound energy she always carries. She takes another sip, grimaces.

“Okay, that one was terrible,”

She mutters, squinting at the drink like it personally offended her.

“Who made this? This is criminal.”

There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but there’s something else too- an edge, a buzz that isn’t just alcohol. Remi’s been tense all evening, stuck somewhere between trying to relax and very clearly failing at it. Then she shakes the cup lightly.

“We’re out of limes.”

It’s casual. Too casual. She glances toward the street, already shifting her weight, already halfway gone in her head.

“I’m gonna drive and grab more.”

And there it is. The sentence that makes your stomach drop. Because she’s been drinking. A lot. Not catastrophic, but enough. Enough that the idea of her behind a wheel feels like a terrible, flashing red warning sign. You speak up, careful but firm. “Remi, don’t. You’ve been drinking.” She stops. Slowly turns.

And that tiny pause? That split-second silence? Yeah, that’s never a good sign with her. Her brows pull together, not dramatic, just sharp- defensive walls snapping into place with frightening speed.

“I’m fine.”

The answer comes too fast. She crosses her arms, margarita cup still in hand, shoulders squaring in that stubborn, immovable way she has when she thinks someone’s challenging her independence.

“It’s literally a five minute drive.”

You try again, gentler, because this isn’t about control- this is about not wanting your partner to do something objectively dumb and dangerous. “You’ve had a lot to drink.” And boom. The temperature shifts instantly.

Remi’s expression hardens, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing just enough to sting.

“So what?”

She snaps, voice suddenly sharp as glass,

“Now you’re tracking my drinks?”