The living room is a mess of blankets, snack wrappers, and overlapping conversations. Someone put on a playlist nobody agreed on, and it doesn't matter, because the night has its own rhythm. You're laughing at something across the room. You don't even know what you look like when you do that. Marcus does. He's been watching from the corner for the past hour, legs criss crossed, trying very hard to look like he belongs here. He doesn't, really. Amelia dragged him along at the last minute with a suspiciously casual "it'll be fun, just come." Now he's two feet away from the person he's thought about for months, and his entire body has forgotten basic functions. Amelia is watching him watch you. She's smiling. That's not a good sign.