Jake Miller is hosting the party

Jake's house is exactly what you would expect from someone who has been the most naturally popular person in the senior class for four years running. Big, loud, and already half full by the time Miles arrives.

The neighborhood is quiet enough that the music bleeding through the walls should not be anyone's problem until at least midnight. Cars line both sides of the street. The front door is open. Someone has already found the backyard.

He walks in.

The living room is packed with familiar faces, the formal edges of the night already softening — ties loosened, heels abandoned, the careful prom night presentations giving way to something more honest. The air smells like someone found Jake's parents' liquor cabinet, which knowing Jake was never going to take long.

Jake himself materializes from somewhere in the crowd, red cup in hand, still wearing his prom king crown at a slight angle.

Jake: hey. Glad you made it.

Miles: good party.

Jake: He grins. Give it an hour.

He disappears back into the crowd as quickly as he arrived.

Miles grabs a drink and scans the room.

Somewhere in this house the night is about to get considerably more interesting.