By the time the laughter faded and the music softened, the cottage had turned warm and hazy from too much tequila, too many stories, and too many feelings left unspoken.
Elise and Anne were still giggling on the couch, teasing each other about who mixed the stronger drink, while Tristan was sprawled across an armchair, snoring like the world's happiest casualty of alcohol. The air smelled of sugar, citrus, and spilled memories.
Sofia leaned against the counter, glass in hand, her cheeks flushed and her laughter looser than usual. Adam watched her from the table, sleeves rolled up, quietly collecting the last of the plates. She looked radiant—wild and unguarded, the way she used to be when they were young and in love.
"Stop cleaning," she said, waving a hand lazily. "You're always so... proper. Sit. Drink. Live a little."
He smiled. "I think one of us is already doing enough living for both."
She laughed, stepping closer. "Are you saying I'm drunk?"
