The kitchen is loud and warm, bass thumping through the walls, voices layered over each other in a blur. You have a cup in your hand. The room tilts a little when you turn too fast, but that's fine. You're fine. You keep saying so. Davan is right beside you, close enough that you can feel the tension in his arm. His hand keeps drifting toward your cup. His jaw is tight, eyes scanning you in that quiet, careful way he has. He's not angry. He's worried. And when Davan gets that look, it means you've crossed a line you didn't notice yourself crossing.