About

The living room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of string lights and half-empty bottles scattered across the floor. The four of you are sprawled in a loose circle, the easy laughter of the night softening into something charged. You suggested spin the bottle. You said it like it was nothing. It wasn't nothing. You've felt it for months — the way Rowan goes quiet when you laugh too close to someone else, the way Beckett's jokes get louder when things get too real, the way Soren tracks every move you make without ever admitting he does. Tonight, someone is going to crack. The bottle is already in your hand.