“Fine,” Lizzie conceded. “Consentandchaos.”
The bottle went around. The early rounds were loud and harmless. Lizzie to Tara. There was a dramatic squeal, a loud smooch to the cheek, then giggles. Dan to Gage followed with catcalls and a quick peck that had the whole circle wheezing. Someone to someone else Sage barely knew. It was awkward, funny, and over in the blink of an eye. It was dumb, and it was light, and it should’ve been nothing but noise.
Bryce’s turn came. He spun too hard. The bottle rattled against a knot in the wood, skittered, slowed, and pointed at the blank space between two strangers.
“Re-spin,” Tara shouted.
He spun again. It clacked past Sage, past Lizzie, past Dan, and landed on Tara herself.
Tara cupped his jaw in both hands like a proud aunt, kissed him once, and said, “Hygienic. Ten out of ten.”
“Thank you?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand because that seemed like the right joke. Everyone laughed like it was.
It kept going. The room grew warm. Music hummed under the chatter. Bryce passed a water bottle to someone who needed it and took a swig himself. He wasn’t drunk-drunk anymore. Tipsy now, the edges softer, but his brain had sobered up just enough to start thinking again. That never helped.
He kept not looking at Sage and kept failing. Sage sat two people over, long legs crossed, gray T-shirt soft in all the places Bryce’s eyes didn’t need to learn. His hair fell forward when he leaned to say something to Dan, and he pushed it back with his fingers. The motion should have been nothing. Bryce felt it anyway. He smiled at nothing and everything; the party blur was easy to ride.
Lizzie made the circle bark with a suggestion: “Let’s up the stakes. Two minutes in the closet.”
Groans. Whoops. Someone yelled, “We’re not in middle school!”
Bryce’s throat went dry. He lifted the bottle, took a sip, and then put it down again.
“It’s a small closet,” Dan said, wriggling his eyebrows. “Very intimate.”
“We are not doing anything anyone doesn’t want,” Tara said, the look she gave Dan sharp enough to cut cardboard.
“Consent and chaos,” Lizzie sang.
“Chaos is optional,” Sage said mildly.
Bryce tried to laugh and only managed half of one. He could feel his pulse. It was just a game. He’d played worse. He’d kissed strangers and laughed in the morning. But this circle contained exactly one person who could make his lungs forget how to work.
Don’t land on him. His brain said it with the calmness of a mantra. Don’t land on Sage. Don’t.
A guy named Matt spun. It landed on Dan. Catcalls. Two minutes in the dark sounded like a punishment for both of them, and they still went in, laughing, banging the door on the way. They came out red-cheeked and grinning. Someone yelled, “Look at those puffy lips,” and it was all ridiculous and easy again.
Bryce’s shoulders came down a notch. The room tilted back to fun. He let himself breathe.
“Everest,” someone said. “Your turn.”
Sage glanced at the bottle, then around the circle. His eyes passed over Bryce like a hand brushed along a sleeve. No catch, no pause. Fine. Good. Bryce’s chest still went tight.
Sage’s mouth twitched. He leaned forward and spun.
Green glass caught the light, flashed, whirled. The whole room leaned with it like one organism—breath in, breath out, waiting for direction.
Bryce didn’t breathe.
It slowed. Stuttered. Clicked past Tara’s knee, past Gage’s shoe, past the empty space where Lizzie’s leg had been a second earlier when she shifted.
And stopped. Pointing straight at Bryce.
A whoop went up. Dan yelled, “Fate!” Lizzie did a tiny drum roll on her knees. Tara shouted, “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Heat followed, rolling through Bryce’s chest fast and wide. His skin went prickly along his arms, like every hair had been waiting to stand up.
He looked at Sage.
