“I think my boyfriend is a shiny fire hazard,” Delilah mutters, but her smile betrays pride.
Troy cranks the music louder. Someone starts a beer pong tournament in the kitchen. Alex drags Tara into an impromptu dance circle.
And I’m standing here in my underwear and leaves, thinking about how I can't wait to see Piper, about how it doesn't feel like I'm waiting for my fake-date.
18
PIPER
The first thing that hits me is the smell. Chocolate brownies and cheap beer mixing with too many competing colognes. Fairy lights blink from every surface, and bass thumps through the floorboards hard enough to rattle my bones. The house pulses like something alive.
For months, I’ve avoided parties—too much risk of running into Miles, too many pitying looks from people who knew about my pathetic crush. But tonight feels different. The fairy lights wrapped around my torso feel like an armor, like I’m wearing confidence instead of just Christmas decorations.
And Ethan—Jesus Christ,Ethan.
He’s standing in the center of the living room wearing nothing but white boxers and a garland of fake autumn leaves draped strategically across his chest. He should look ridiculous. He should look like every bad decision wrapped in craft store clearance items.
Instead, he looks like a nature god who got lost on the wayto a photoshoot.
“There she is!” He spots me, and his whole face transforms. “My electric fairy!”
Before I can be properly mortified by that nickname, he’s crossing the room, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing. People part for him—maybe because of his confidence, maybe because they’re worried the leaves might shift.
“You actually wore it,” I say when he reaches me.
“I’m fully committed to this.” He does a little spin, leaves rustling. “Greg helped me arrange them for maximum coverage.”
“Greg has questionable judgment.”
“Greg is a style icon.” He gestures to where the plant sits near the door, tiny wizard hat perched on a leaf.
“Is Greg wearing a wizard hat?”
“Greg deserves to party, too. He’s been practicing his spell-casting all week.”
“You’re ridiculous.” But I'm smiling, a real and warm glow filling my chest.
“Come on, you need to meet everyone.” His hand finds the small of my back, warm against the thin fabric of my tank top. The touch is casual, natural, like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like we’re actually together.
Freddie materializes with a brownie that sparkles suspiciously. “You must be the famous Piper! Ethan won’t shut up about?—”
“BROWNIES!” Ethan interrupts loudly. “Fred makes great brownies. You should try one. Right now.”
Freddie grins wickedly but hands me the brownie. It’s incredible—dark chocolate and espresso and something that makes my tongue tingle.
“Holy shit,” I mumble through crumbs.
“SEE?” Freddie turns to Troy. “I told you! Best fucking brownies in the house!”
“Your brownies are good,” Troy concedes, his aluminum foil armor crinkling as he moves. “But my mac and cheese?—”
They devolve into competitive cooking talk. Ethan steers me away, hand still on my back.
“Sorry about them. They’re... a lot.”
“They’re great,” I say, meaning it. His friends are warm, welcoming, nothing like the computer science crowd who treated me like Miles’s shadow for years.
We drift through the party. Ethan introduces me to people from his classes, his game design group, random party guests. Every introduction comes with that hand on my back, little touches that feel both performative and genuine. My fairy lights catch on his leaves occasionally, tangling us together.
