with pounding music, a drinks bar and flashy patrons were the same.

For my twenty-first birthday, when I came back from NYC, my friends had taken me on a bar crawl around Halston. That was when I discovered that every club was virtually the same, in that I preferred my bedroom to all of them. Bars were like clubs without the dancing, mixers were like bars without the seats, and formals were like mixers without the alcohol.

So I was pleasantly thrilled with what the SciBall organising committee had managed to accomplish, especially considering the venue usually functioned as a business conference centre with a stiff, slate gray colour palette.

I had expected the room to be bright, but it was the opposite. All the lighting came from either fairy lights, which streaked their way around the walls and across the ceiling, or from hanging bulb lights. The length of the wires were all different, and the bulbs rested inside star-shaped lampshades with hundreds of holes punctured in them. These two lighting techniques created thousands of focal light sources that made me feel like I'd walked into a newborn galaxy.

Aside from this, the decorations were threadbare—probably because they'd blown the budget on the lights. A few silver balloon pillars dotted the corners of the room, and a single electronic candlestick sat on each table.

"Love what they've done with the place." Viv gave her seal of approval. Then she continued her appraisal of the ballroom, eyes hungrily wandering over the furniture in search of something. "Where's the booze bar?"

I chuckled at her appetite for alcohol. That was always her first order of business, in order to be able to have real fun. According to Viv, you couldn't let loose if you were aware of other people watching. One needed to be dead to the world and themselves for a truly transcendental experience.

I just thought she wanted to make binge-drinking glamorous, just like how she made everything else glamourous. Including torturous subjects like organic chemistry.

The Jays were not as bad as her, but in particular Jamie was letting his barely-concealed feelings for Viv sway him. If drinking was Viv's bad habit, Viv was Jamie's bad habit.

He pointed out the counter, far across the dancefloor, to Viv. "Over in the corner. I'll go with you."

In exasperation, Jake raised the arm that wasn't being clung to by Riley. "Hey, what about me? I don't want to be on babysitting duty the whole night."

"I'll look after her," I offered. Jake started walking Riley towards the edge of the room, aiming for the dining tables. I followed, telling him, "I'll get some sliders into her and then make her dance to speed up her metabolism. Should help process the alcohol."

"Thanks, Krista," Jake said, frowning in Jamie's direction. "He gets laid once and suddenly forgets about his lifelong twin brother. Blood and flesh. Wombmates."

I snorted at his joke, adding, "I think it was more than once."

"Gross. Let's hope it's over quickly so I don't ever have to worry about walking in on them."

"You think it'll be over quickly?" I wondered, catching the sight of Viv's silhouette weaving through the crowd. Jamie followed close behind her, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.

"I bet ten bucks he's just Viv's latest plaything. Nothing's gonna happen."

"Interesting." I grabbed a slider from a passing waiter and handed it to Riley. "I bet that they'll end up dating. And make it twenty."

Jake's eyebrows darted up. "Bullshit."

"Can't afford it?"

"Um, I can afford it," he retorted, swerving as a couple of drunk women darted around us. Riley giggled with the movement. "I was calling bullshit on the dating thing. And because I'm so sure, I'll put fifty bucks on this."

"You got yourself a wager, Tanner." We shook on it. Then I said, "Can you bring back some water for Riley?"

Jake nodded and relinquished Riley to me before setting off with Viv and Riley.

"Hey, Riley," I said cheerily. "Let's eat."

Taking Riley's hand, I made my way through the crowds of people. There were waiters walking around the ballroom with trays of inexpensive finger food—sushi, spring rolls, sliders—and each chance I took, I grabbed one and made Riley swallow it. The girl needed food to soak up the alcohol.

Once she'd had the equivalent of a full cheeseburger, I brought her to a dining table that was in view of the drinks bar. I trusted the Jays and Viv to make their way back here when they had sufficiently robbed the place of their liquor.

"Krista Ming," Riley suddenly piped up. "Why do people call you by your full name?" It was clear she was reflecting on my run-in with some fans of mine earlier this evening.

"I— honestly don't know," I answered. "Maybe that's how they think of me in their head."

"It'd be so weird if I heard someone say Riley Salesi. I'd think I was getting in trouble."

Smiling fondly at my oh-so-drunk, misleadingly coherent and adorably sensitive best friend, I hummed. "Yup."

Riley didn't continue the conversation, but I knew she was busy thinking of something. Her eyes weren't like they were in the car ride here; they were alert, bright and they flitted from the fake candlestick at the center of the table, to the long line where the Jays and Viv were waiting for free drinks.

Viv was oftentimes a closed book, very private and unreadable. But Riley was an open book in many ways. Not only was she a bad liar, she couldn't see why she would have to lie about anything in the first place — and her emotions shone through her face.

That was how I noticed her mood take a plummet. Her caramel eyes swam, lit up like dual moons, and her frown carved out a crease between her eyebrows. A not-so-adorable side effect of Riley's sensitivity; she was an emotional drunk.

"I don't think I'm over him," she announced bluntly. I stifled a sympathetic sigh. I knew she would say something like that.

As soon as Riley could articulate her thoughts, she would tell me. She didn't keep things from the people in her life.

That had caused some tension when she dated Phoenix, who I'd met a few times over the course of the relationship. As soon as Riley had doubts or concerns about her future, she would voice them. Without rationalising them. Without taking it a step further to consider solutions. She had said once that Phoenix would always notice when her mood changed and then she had only two options: keep it from him and hurt him, or tell him and hurt him.

"I didn't think you would be," I smiled simply. "You guys dated for so long."

She whispered, "Then why did it end?"

I answered bluntly, "Because both of you have more growing to do."

The upside to Riley's candour was that she appreciated candour in return. I didn't have to mince my words around either Viv—who was honest but insensitive—or Riley. More than anything, more than the fact that Viv and I studied the same thing, more than our shared hall of residence, I think my best friends became my best friends because I felt comfortable being my most authentic self around them.

Riley shook her head, as if to physically dispel her dark wander through memory lane. She gave me a shaky smile and nodded. "Okay."

"Eat your sliders," I smirked, my eyes falling to the small pile of food I had heaped into a cardboard plate.

"Yes, Mom."

"You can be sarcastic when you can walk without being helped by someone."

Riley scoffed indignantly. She stubbornly gathered her skirt and stood up from her chair to prove a point. But as soon as she rose, the shift in her posture made her sway precariously. With a defeated sigh, she fell back into her chair.

"Alright," Riley conceded with a pout. Her hand reached out for another slider. "By the way, thanks for looking after me. I'm so grateful for you. And Viv, though she's a bitch. She's a sweet bitch. A switch!"

Just then a slender hand reached into my field of vision, placing two paper cups down on the table. "Honey, no," Viv smirked dangerously. "I'm a top."

Riley flushed a brilliant shade of carmine when she realised the opportunity she had given Viv. She took her cup of water and sipped demurely while the Jays guffawed at Viv's shameless joke. Or, rather, declaration—she was honest, after all.

Riley jerked her head up defiantly. "I'm not shit-faced anymore, guys. See, look."

This time she rose more carefully from the table and strolled around its circumference, smiling proudly. "Walking on my own! Want me to answer more literature questions?"

"We believe you," Jake chuckled.

Now that Riley was in the safest hands possible—her own—we could finally hit the dancefloor. The Jays and Viv cradled their drinks almost tenderly as they jumped around to the music, careful not to spill a drop. I let the stressful thoughts of studying, med school applications and work fade from my mind like frost on a car windshield melting in the sun.

Dancing with my friends, celebrating the last year of college. This was one of the best places to be, I realised, no matter how tempting my bed was. I was grateful that they all stuck with me through my reclusive habits. My feet were feeling the premonitions of a bad cramp, the music was rhythmic but tasteless—and I was incredibly happy to be here.

About an hour later, I took a bathroom break. When I returned to the main ballroom, the music had morphed from a throbbing dance track to a slow love ballad.

Riley had sworn off romance ever since breaking up with her ex, Viv had exactly zero sentimental bones in her entire body, and the Jays were about as emotional as the footballs they kicked around. I saw all four of them sitting this one out at the table we'd claimed earlier.

Personally, I thought it was a little early in the night to slow things down and nearly joined them for a break. Then I reminded myself that balls weren't nightclubs. There wasn't any rush to return to my friends, so I hunted around for more of those spring rolls while I wandered the room.

When I had four of them crammed into my mouth—and I suspected sweet chilli sauce on my face—I heard a voice behind me.

"Krista." I spun around and nearly choked.

At first I was looking straight at the knot of an obsidian-coloured satin tie, and then my eyes wandered up to meet Quen's face. He was standing closer than he usually did, but that was probably due to how tightly packed everyone was. I was near enough to smell his clean, fresh cologne. God. It was mouth-watering.

Even with my high heels, Quen was still taller than me, as always. He wore a simple black suit, but to my desire-addled brain, it looked like the most revolutionary outfit known to mankind. The sharp corner of the jacket sleeves were supported by his broad shoulders, while the garment tapered thinner around his waist and hips. His long legs cut a striking silhouette in cleanly pressed trousers, and the tips of his polished shoes reflected the soft light of the ballroom back at me.

I dragged my eyes back to his face when I realised I'd been blatantly scanning his body. My smile was watery. "Quen."

He smiled back and pointed to a spot on his chin. "You've got— uh. Sauce."

"Oh, right." I wiped at the spot on my face with the napkin in my hand, gathering the sweet chilli sauce away. "Thanks. How was the test?"

"Adequate," Quen shrugged.

Inwardly, I smacked myself. After I copped out of our study sessions, we hadn't spoken alone for nearly two weeks. Now, the first chance I got to say something interesting, I instinctively fell back on schoolwork.

"How about you?"

"More than adequate," I shrugged.

"Congratulations," Quen chuckled heartily. One of our running jokes was that I was a latent genius—which he seemed to really believe, while I used it self-deprecatingly.

There was a brief lull where we just stared at each other with the laughter still dancing bright in our eyes. Quen rubbed the nape of his neck, and then shoved his hand into his pocket. He was rather fidgety, I noticed, which he hadn't been around me for a long time. It was as if we were almost acquaintances again.

That was my fault. I was the one who had pushed him away. I had demoted him from one of my closest friends, to a small-talk friend that felt he had any reason to be nervous around me.

Then Quen extended his hand to me. "Do you, um, want to dance?" My heart gave a squeeze so forceful that my breath faltered.

Curse him. Curse him for walking straight up to me and asking me to dance so carelessly. Curse him for making me hope again while I remained just a friend to him.

Curse me for falling.

I knew if I danced with him, something would happen that would undo all my weeks of distancing and emotional recalibration. It wasn't fair that weeks of forethought and planning were so easily outweighed by three minutes of bliss. But I guessed I wasn't an exception.

When had logic ever triumphed over...

"To a slow song?" I arched an eyebrow, smoothly plastering over how off guard his question had caught me. "I thought you didn't like to dance."

One thing that stressed me out whenever I talked to Quentin was how I could never throw him. I could be absurd or I could be intellectual, and he would always smile in that gentle manner of his and win the elaborate battle of wits right then and there.

In this case, Quen gazed down at me with his unreadable dark eyes and shrugged. "I didn't."

Well, fuck.

What could I say to that? I didn't even understand it, much less know how to counter it. If I danced with him, I would regress right back to where I was three weeks ago.

If I didn't, I would regret it forever.

I placed my hand into his open palm. His fingers curled in and wove their way through mine. Then, Quen led us through the crowd of people on the dancefloor, looking for a space suitably larger to move around. All the while I followed him, staring at the back of the man who had so gracefully shattered my equilibrium.

Wordlessly, for once.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Men in suits.

That is all.