It's one of those nights where nobody wants to go home, so everyone's pretending they're not exhausted. The conversation's been drifting for hours, lazy and comfortable, until Henry—because of course it's Henry—grabs an empty beer bottle and spins it in the middle of the table.

And then there's Bryce. Of course there's Bryce.

He's sprawled out like he owns the place, arm draped across the back of the couch, curls falling messily over his forehead. He hasn't said much all night, but you can feel his presence like a splinter you can't dig out. His eyes flick to you for half a second—just half—before he looks away, jaw tight.

The kind of silence that stretches a little too long.

You feel your stomach drop. Somewhere in your peripheral vision, Bryce's fingers twitch against the couch cushion. He doesn't look at you. You don't look at him. But somehow, the air between you gets heavier anyway.