The living room was a sea of bodies. A couple made out against the stairwell, mouths moving like they were trying to swallow each other whole. Someone had knocked over a lamp, and nobody had turned it back on. The kitchen, visible through the archway, was a graveyard of red solo cups.

He nodded at the cup in your hand—some neon concoction someone had mixed with way too much schnapps. His grin was crooked, sharp, the same one he wore when he was about to do something he knew he'd later deny.

The lights flickered. Someone whooped. The front door slammed open, and a wave of fresh bodies poured in from the porch, laughing loud enough to shake the windows.