He stepped into the lobby of Mayfield Hall, its marble floors and tall white columns exactly as he remembered. The place hadn’t changed. It was still the most lux student residence on campus—arched windows, crown molding, an air of quiet legacy dressed up as modern refinement.
The elevator climbed to the top floor. The hallway was silent. Familiar.
He knocked once.
The door opened. Georgina grinned, then stepped back to let him in.
And for a moment, he didn’t speak.
The furniture had been pushed to the walls. In the center of the room, two folding tables stood side by side, draped inclashing cartoon tablecloths—bright yellows and reds, one with balloons. Uneven streamers clung to the ceiling, held up by clear hooks and a few desperate strips of tape. A rainbow of balloons floated at different heights, their ribbons tangled around lamp bases and door handles.
Along the far wall, a glitter-covered banner stretched proudly, one edge sagging just a little under its own weight:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GAGE (the pre-corporate party)
The lighting was warm and slightly too low. The music was undignified, the kind he’d heard his peers listen to in middle school.
One of the folding tables was covered on one side in homemade party food. Chicken nuggets with toothpicks stuck in them. Pizza bagels beside a bowl of honey mustard. Cheese puffs spilling out of a too-small bowl. Rainbow fruit skewers leaning like dominos. Juice boxes arranged in a lopsided pyramid. Goldfish crackers. Gummy bears in mismatched plastic cups.
He didn’t recognize the scent. The mess. The warmth. But somehow, it felt like something he should have remembered.
And in the center of it all, standing near a cookie-decorating table already dusted in sugar and flour, stood Bea. Barefoot. In jeans, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Her hair was pulled up loosely, a few strands falling out.
She looked up, saw him, and grinned. “Hey,” she said, still fiddling with something at the table. “One sec. You’re late. Birthday-boy protocol says you get a penalty. I’ll have to think of one.”
Georgie pushed him inside. His feet moved until he was in the middle of the room.
Behind him, Georgina picked up a juice box, sipping it like it was something far more expensive. She put on a cone-shaped party hat bedazzled with pom-poms and rhinestones.
“Welcome to your party, Gage,” Georgie said brightly.
He finally noticed Nate, leaning against the kitchen counter. He didn’t speak, just raised his brows slightly, mouth set in the flat line of a man who’d been tricked into party planning and now had tomato sauce on his sleeve to prove it.
He wore the world’s tiniest party hat. Gage had no idea who had convinced him to wear that, or how.
Gage gave him a look. “You knew?”
“They drafted me.”
“Volunteered?”
“Volun-told.”
Georgina smirked. “We used him for his muscles.”
“I moved furniture,” Nate said flatly, grabbing a chicken nugget from the table. “I was compensated in Oreos.”
Bea stepped toward him. She had sugar on her cheek, her eyes warm, and she was holding a party crown like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Happy birthday,” she said softly. “No entertaining. No business. Just us.”
“This is…” He searched for a word that didn’t feel like surrender.
She reached up and affixed the glittery crown to his head, brushing his hair lightly with her fingers. “Perfect,” she said with a little smile.
Later, after too many carbs had been eaten and the playlist had wandered into absurdity, they’d somehow all ended up around the table—four adults, sleeves pushed up, dignity optional.
There was frosting on the floor. And the windowsill. And somehow, in Nate’s hair, though he hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes.
