The music in the living room was too loud for a Thursday night, but none of them cared. Tristan had jacked a bottle of her dad’s whiskey and a six-pack from the garage fridge, tossed it onto the coffee table like a reward for surviving the week, and now the friend group was splayed across the worn-out couch and floor of her basement like a pack of feral teens with nothing to lose.

The room smelled like weed, cheap perfume, and something lemony from the candles her mom left lit. Heather had already taken over the aux and was blasting early 2000s pop like her life depended on it, jumping on the couch in her socks, drink in hand. Maddie was curled up in the beanbag chair, texting someone she’d never admit to talking to, while Tris was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, legs spread, hoodie pushed up to her elbows, drink half-full and warm in her hand.

And then there was Alex.

Sitting on the couch, laughing at something Heather had said, her smile flashing like a knife to Tristan’s ribs. The sound of her laughter cut through the music, familiar and beloved and agonizing. Tristan could see the way Alex's eyes crinkled at the corners when she found something really funny, a detail she'd cataloged years ago and never forgotten.

To be clear — Heather and Alex were just friends. Everyone knew that. They'd been close since elementary school, the kind of inseparable that made people whisper, but it was always platonic. Tris knew that. She knew that.

Didn’t make it any easier.

What really got her—what made her grip the neck of her bottle tighter until her knuckles whitened—was the way Heather kept leaning into Alex, fingers trailing across her arm when she laughed, whispering something in her ear like they were sharing secrets. Like Heather didn’t know what that would do to Tris. Or maybe she did.