We drift away from the kitchen, finding a relatively quiet corner near the stairs. The party swirls around us—a kaleidoscope of improvised costumes and questionable decisions.
“Thanks,” Piper says suddenly. “For the save back there. With Miles.”
“No problem. Though I should warn you for tomorrow, Greg’s a terrible conversationalist. Very one-sided.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think I’m pathetic? For the whole...” She gestures vaguely. “This whole thing?”
“No,” I say immediately. “I think you’re human.”
“That’s being diplomatic.”
“It’s being honest.” I lean against the wall, studying her. “You want to know what I really think?”
She nods, fairy lights twinkling with the movement.
“I think you spent so long being what Miles wanted that you forgot to ask what you wanted. And now that you’re finally asking, it’s scary as hell.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s... yeah. That’s exactly it.”
“I also think,” I continue, emboldened by punch and proximity, “that Miles is an idiot who couldn’t see what was right in front of him. And his loss is my gain, even if it’s just pretend.”
The words hang between us, heavier than intended.
“Ethan...”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know what this is. I’m not—I’m not making it weird. I promise.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees. A convenient prop? A friend? Something more?
“It’s already weird,” she says finally. “But maybe that’s okay.”
Before I can respond, someone crashes into us—shower curtain girl again, now definitely drunker and missing most of her duckies.
“Sorry!” she slurs. “Love your leaves! Very Biblical!”
She stumbles away, leaving us laughing.
“Biblical?” I look down at my costume. “I was going for more pagan god.”
“Pagan gods probably wore more clothes. You really do look like Adam.” Piper points out.
“Details.” I finish my punch, grimacing. “Want to dance? Might as well give Miles more to stare at.”
She glances toward the living room where the music is loudest. “Actually... can we go somewhere quieter? Just for a minute? My head is spinning and I don’t think it’s just the punch.”
I study her face. She does look overwhelmed—the night’s emotions catching up maybe, or just the sensory overload of the party.
“Yeah, of course. We can go to my room if you want. Fair warning though, it’s a mess.”
“I’ve seen your backpack. I’m prepared.”
We navigate through the party, past beer pong in the dining room and whatever drinking game is happening on the stairs. My room is at the end of the hall, and I’m grateful I at least made my bed this morning.
The bass is muffled up here, though the floor still vibrates. My desk showcases its usual disarray—game dev notebooks, empty energy drink cans, sketches for the new build scattered everywhere.
