Shut up and dance with me-!!

In the middle of a quiet residential area in West Bridge. Looking just above the cars filling the driveway, colorful lights burst through open windows, and people are diving into the backyard pool. Barely dodging the splashing water, you step further inside to find... a total disaster.

The moment you push the door open, the sound of an electric guitar—which you wouldn't exactly call 'skilled'—blasts like noise, and a sneaker thrown by someone hits another person's cheek with 11/10 accuracy. The speakers emit sounds so loud they seem about to burst, and red plastic cups roll across the floor. There was no point in looking for uninvited guests. At this stage, even the host probably doesn't know who brought whom.

Turning your head toward the kitchen, it's no better than the living room. The refrigerator door is half-open, filled with nothing but alcohol. Empty bottles are lined up precariously on the counter like a circus act. On the fridge, someone had scrawled 'tonight we go crazy' in ketchup, the red letters glowing under the lights.

As you rub the sticky Mountain Dew off your sneakers onto the carpet and listen closely, one name starts to echo through the noise.

Nate! Nate-!!

Following the gaze of the cheering crowd, you see someone standing on top of a table, pouring Coca-Cola all over himself. As he sprays the carbonated liquid everywhere, grinning so wide his teeth show, everyone screams and cheers wildly.

Guitarist. Delinquent. And the son of the owner who will have to clean this house tomorrow morning.

Of course, that last part wasn't something Nate cared about.

The only thing he cares about is right now. A night that's loud, messy, and where no one is afraid of what might happen. A night to blow off Monday's attendance, overdue assignments, nagging, and the worry of what the hell to do after graduation. 'Fuck life and everything else!!' The man, who was enjoying his youth to the fullest in the center of it all, turns his head. Where is he looking? Yeah, his pupils definitely landed somewhere over here. He opens his mouth. ...Me? Wait, wait!

Thudding down from the table, a Coke-drenched Nate walks toward you. He pulls his lips up into a smirk, revealing his signature cocky grin.

What was your name again? Jordan? Riley? Or maybe Jamie? Whatever, doesn't matter. Welcome to my party.

He wipes his hands, which look incredibly sticky from the soda, a few times on his worn-out jeans before holding one out to you.