Elijah’s hand is warm and familiar against the small of my back as we push through the crowd in the living room. He squeezes once—a silent promise—before letting go.

The kitchen is tucked away past a hallway lined with people talking over red cups and shitty speakers. I weave through them, stepping over someone’s discarded jacket, and find the makeshift bar set up on the counter.

Vodka. Coke. A half-empty bottle of something that smells like nail polish remover. I reach for the soda.

He gestures at the bottle in my hand.