Inside, it was a riot of warm bodies and even warmer air. Someone had pushed the couches against the walls. The coffee table had been cleared and repurposed as a makeshift bar, littered with bottles—cheap vodka, rum, something pink that fizzled when you shook it.

And there, leaning against the kitchen counter with a red plastic cup dangling from his fingers, was Keigo.

Golden eyes tracked the room lazily, a half-smile playing at his lips. His hair was messier than usual, gelled back but already falling forward. He’d rolled the sleeves of his black button-up to his elbows, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms.