Brandon and I are solving climate change together, so I suppose I can trust him not to send me over to collapse into Andrew or Abigail Archer’s laps.

I snort, thinking about how appalled they’d be at some random teenage girl showing up drunk on their doorstep.

Is two and a half drinks enough to get a person drunk? I don’t feel drunk; I just feel like my skin is alive and I’m light as a feather.

What am I doing again?

Oh, right.

Dylan.

I can’t actually find the doorbell, so I squint at my phone and pull up my text conversation with Dylan.

Outside.

Your house.

I am outside your house.

Now.

The cold ground does feel nice on my feet.

At first.

I wiggle my toes to confirm I still have feeling in them.

Should I put my boots back on?

Where are my boots?

Where is Dylan?

The door opens.

I nearly squeal in excitement that it’s Dylan and not either of his parents.

“Let me in, Archer,” I beg, hopping from one foot to the other to avoid the ground.

Like that one time James tried to get me to play with him on the playground and told me that the mulch was lava, and we could only move if we touched the jungle gym or wood beams.

He doesn’t move aside to let me in, though, because he’s busy watching me bob around like an idiot. I can’t help but laugh like a lunatic.

“Archer,” I whine. “Please let me in. I’m cold.”

“Are you…drunk?” He says it like he thinks it’s funny, but I don’t think I’ve actually been funny a day in my life.

“I think a little bit. Yes.”

My honesty, at the very least, gets him to usher me inside up to his bedroom.

“I’ll be right back,” he says before he closes the door. “Stay here.”

He leaves me standing in his suite.

Last time I was here, I felt like I didn’t belong. I was too afraid to completely relax, but I’m pleased to find that the alcohol has removed all awareness of shame and nervousness.

I toss my jacket on the floor, which might be the most uncivilized thing someone has done in the house, and sprawl out on the couch.

Dylan returns with a few bottles of water and kicks the door closed behind him, which makes me feel like we’re very alone and realize that I might actually be very drunk.

I drain half a bottle while lying down, and it’s a miracle I don’t spill a drop on myself.

I don’t know how much water you have to drink before you cancel out the alcohol or how much alcohol Brandon put in my glass, but surely it adds up when combined with my empty stomach and low tolerance.

In the silence of my figuring all that out, Dylan takes me in.

“What are you wearing?” he finally asks.

I glance down and start laughing. “I don’t even know.”

It all seemed so chic when Audrey put it together, like I was some sort of trendy social media influencer or something, but it just seems so out of place on my body at the moment.

He sits on the coffee table and gives me another once-over. “It’s not…”

“Flattering?” I prompt.

He shakes his head. “It’s not you, Reed.”

Dylan Archer, of all people, understands.

“Clothes are supposed to make you feel confident and more like a reflection of yourself,” he continues.

“I don’t think this is either of those things,” I admit. “It’s all my sister’s doing. Her idea for making me party-ready, apparently. I thought you would be proud of me actually having something on my social calendar.”

He shrugs. “Not if this is the result.”

I’m used to seeing him buttoned up in his school uniform or in his track compression gear, but at home, post-familial duties, he’s in black joggers and a matching hoodie.

It’s a beautiful contrast with his skin and hair.

Darkness and light.

And the balance between it.

“Does this make you feel like a reflection of yourself?” I tease, which makes him roll his eyes.

I’ve also never seen him without shoes before. His socks are designed to look like they’re decorated with little splatters of paint.

When my instinct is to reach out and touch them, I decide finishing off the rest of my water bottle is a better idea.

“Why weren’t you at the party tonight?” I ask.

“My father had dinner with a few business associates. I had to be a part of the charade while they had drinks because I’m the dutiful son and all,” he explains sourly. “And I’ve just been enjoying an empty house ever since.”

I do like to be home alone. I know it freaks some people out, but it’s nice to have an entire place to yourself at your own volume and pace, deciding how to occupy a place without someone else’s preferences.

I bet Dylan enjoys that same type of loneliness I do.

I roll onto my side and tuck my knees up, offering him a seat on the couch, but he stays where he is.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

I shrug. “I’m cold.”

There’s a walk-in closet across the room and a throw on the armchair under the window, but without hesitation, he slides off his hoodie and offers it to me.

I take it greedily. I slip it on and am very grateful that his body heat has already done some of the legwork for me.

“You’re being nice to me,” I comment, shimmying it down as far as it will go on my thighs.

“I’m being the same as always, Reed,” he counters. “You’re just not fighting every little thing I say.”

I yawn and curl up again, enveloped in his warmth and scent. “Maybe you’re right.”

All I want to do is snuggle deeper into this couch. It’s warm and smells good, and it’s so peaceful here.

“Reed, someone’s calling you.”

“Hmm?”

I hear the vibration, but maybe it will go away if I ignore it.

“Reed, your phone,” Dylan says, but this time it’s with far less patience.

I begrudgingly pull my phone to my face.

It’s James.

The reminder of where I am supposed to be and who I was supposed to be going home with wakes me right up.

“Hello,” I say as alert and soberly as I can.

“Where are you?” His voice is a little panicked.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He breathes a sigh of relief into his phone. “I have been looking for you all over the house. Brandon said you stepped out to get air. But you never came back.”

It’s not a total lie.

“Did you get a ride home?” James asks.

I turn to Dylan, who can clearly hear the entirety of our conversation. “Can I have a ride home?”

He rolls his eyes but ultimately nods.

“Yes,” I tell James.

“Okay,” he says.

“Have fun with Lyla.” I try to say it nicely because I genuinely mean it, but there’s an edginess I hadn’t expected.

I hang up before he can respond.

Maybe it’s because I was just talking and hearing James’s voice in my ear, but the silence is loud between Dylan and me.

“Do you love him?” Dylan asks suddenly.

He says the words so quickly, as if he accidentally touched a hot pan from the oven, that I’m not sure if I’ve heard him correctly.