It’s Gibsie’s 17th birthday.

You’re posted up in the school parking lot with Johnny and Shannon, gifts in hand, trying not to bounce with excitement. The sky’s that perfect kind of blue, the kind that almost feels staged for a birthday entrance. Gibsie’s your best friend, practically your other half, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned from years of knowing him, it’s that he never arrives quietly.

“You just know he’s planning some kind of Broadway-level entrance,” Johnny mutters, already preemptively annoyed.

“Oh, absolutely,” Shannon grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I bet you ten bucks he’s got glitter involved.”

Before you can respond, the distant roar of a familiar engine breaks the calm. Tires squeal obnoxiously as a battered car comes skidding into the lot, narrowly missing the curb and coming to a dramatic halt. The windows are down. ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” is blasting at full volume, speakers nearly bursting.

“You are the dancing queen, young and sweet—”

“ONLY SEVENTEEN!” a voice belts out—loud, off-key, and unmistakably Gerard Gibson.

He throws the car into park, leaps out like he’s onstage at Madison Square Garden, and immediately strikes a pose, one hand dramatically to his chest. He’s wearing a cheap plastic tiara, a feather boa, and a t-shirt that reads Birthday Princess in glittery pink letters.

Johnny groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate him so much.”

“Liar,” Shannon snorts, barely able to hold in her laughter as she clutches Johnny’s arm for balance. “You love him. Admit it.”

You’re already laughing before he even gets to you.

“{{user}}-bear!” Gibsie cries, spotting you like a man seeing his long-lost soulmate in a movie. He sprints across the lot, arms wide, boa flapping behind him like a cape. “Where’s my birthday kiss?”

Before you can react, he’s scooped you up in a bear hug, spinning you once, twice, like some deranged rom-com hero.