The living room's a disaster, and it's the good kind. Every pillow in the place is on the floor. There's a half-built blanket fort slumping off the couch, and the only light comes from the TV and the fairy lights taped across the window. It smells like nail polish, popcorn, and the peach face masks Noor bought in bulk. Outside, it's doing the Seattle drizzle it's been doing since October.

Manon's curled at the end of the couch in satin pajamas and pearl earrings, losing at cards and taking it personally. Lotte's cross-legged on the coffee table with her red curls pinned up, painting Noor's nails bubblegum pink and getting half of it on your good blanket. Noor's on her third face mask because she keeps laughing and splitting the first two. Mags is upside down on the armchair, black bob hanging toward the floor, filming everything for "the archive."

It's the third bottle of rosé that sets it off.

Mags says, flipping right side up so fast her hair whips her in the face.

Nobody has to ask who.

Lotte says, eyes on Noor's nails.

Mags says.

Noor giggles into her mask.

Manon says, pleasant as ever, and throws down a card.

Lotte sets the nail polish down.

Mags says, leaning in like she's been waiting all night.

Manon says, and smiles at Lotte like she knows.

Lotte goes quiet. Then she lowers her voice like the walls can hear.

Manon says without thinking.

Lotte stares at her.

Manon shrugs and sips her wine.

Mags gasps so hard she chokes on her rosé.

Manon examines her nails.

Lotte's face goes the same color as her hair. She doesn't argue. She just says, very quietly,

Mags screams into a couch cushion.

Noor says, covering her ears through her face mask.

Mags says, surfacing.

Lotte groans, flopping flat on her back.

Manon says again, and this time she doesn't even pretend it slipped.

Lotte sits up and stares at her.

Lotte says.

Noor pushes her glasses up, suddenly serious.

Mags is cackling so hard she drops her phone.

Then all four of them turn and look at you all at once.

Mags says.

Manon cuts in.

She tilts her head, pearls catching the light.

The back slider rattles.

He's doing the stupid shave-and-a-haircut knock, again and again. He has a key. Clem gave him one two years ago. He hasn't used it once. He just waits out there for you to let him in, every time.

Manon gets there first. She's off the couch before anyone else moves, flicking the latch with a sweet little smile.

He doesn't even look at her. He's looking past her shoulder, at you.

Mako's leaning on the glass like he got poured there. He's six-foot-one of bad decisions in a black ribbed tank and a zip hoodie hanging off one shoulder. His platinum shag mullet is soaked from the drizzle and stuck in his eyes. His eyes are grey and heavy-lidded, with dark circles smudged under them like he hasn't slept since graduation. Silver is stacked up one ear, and a stamped dog tag hangs from a chain at his collarbone. Black thorn tattoos crawl out of his tank and all the way up his throat to his jaw, like something's growing on him.

he announces, stepping past Manon, phone held up like evidence.

Noor shrieks.

He points at you without looking.

He drops the gas-station bag on the coffee table and stops in front of you. Mid-sentence.

It's just for a second. He leans down like he's reaching for the remote off the armrest, and he stays there. His jaw goes tight. He's close enough that you can smell green soap and vanilla vape and rain, and his chest isn't moving. He's not breathing. His eyes drop, slow and heavy, to your throat. They stay there a beat too long before they lift again.

His voice is lower than it was two seconds ago. Then, before you can answer:

His hand lands on your wrist where it's resting on the armrest. His fingers are freezing, rain-cold, his thumb right over your pulse. He holds it for one second. Two. Like he's counting.

Then he lets go, and he's loud again like somebody threw a switch.

His phone buzzes. He checks it and snorts.

Noor peels half her face mask off.

Mako says, flopping onto the floor pillows.

Lotte says, a little too fast, sliding off the table to sit beside him.

Mags zooms her phone in on your face.

Manon says sweetly, settling back onto the couch.

Nobody laughs.

Mako's lazy grin doesn't move, but his fingers go still on his knee. For one second he looks right at you. Not over your head like always. Right at you, with nothing joking in it.

Then he looks away.

He's settled where he always ends up, on the floor by your spot on the couch. Not on the couch. Right there every time. Lotte's shoulder is pressed against his, and he lets it stay. But his head tips back against the cushion by your leg, close enough that the cold of him soaks through your pajama pants.

He grins at the room, and his canines catch the TV light, far too sharp. He swears they're veneers he got as a joke.

Then he looks up at you upside down, wet bangs hanging off his forehead, and holds his hand out, palm up. A silver ring glints on his finger. His voice drops, just for you, under Manon's complaining.

His thumb curls a little, like he's waiting for something that isn't cards.

Across the circle, Lotte's watching his hand. She isn't watching your face at all.