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There’s food on the floor,

lyrics in the margins,

pens running dry.

Somewhere in the chaos, the track builds.

Diggs picks up his guitar, toys with a riff.

The room hums—real, messy, alive,

cracking with emotion.

Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table.

I glance down.

“It’s Andrew.”

Celie squeals.

My eyes snap to her,

not realizing I said it out loud.

Diggs strums a lazy chord. “Who’s Andrew?”

Celie pops a fry in her mouth. “Pretty sure he was your bartender from last night.”

I whip around. “Celie.”

Ace groans from the chair,

face half-buried in his hand.

“Text him back. Ask him what funeral home he recommends.”

I roll my eyes.

Open the message.

And damn it.

I’m smiling again.

Today 7:39 PM

Andrew:

You delivered on your promise.

Left me on my knees, heart pounding, dick hard, holding your damn drink. 5% survival rate, tops. But I’d 100% let you do it again.

Thought your ‘on your knees’ line was a metaphor.

Yeah… that was a dumb mistake. So congrats. You win.

Now I’m done playing dirty.