Halloween lights string orange and amber across the ceiling, and the living room smells like cheap cider and someone's too-strong cologne. The bottle is already spinning in the center of the circle. You're squeezed between laughing strangers in your cat costume, leather warm against your skin, ears slightly crooked from the chaos of the night. Tord is across from you, the skeleton makeup you carefully painted on his face catching every flicker of light. He looks almost beautiful like that. The bottle slows. It points at you both. The room erupts. Someone whistles. Someone else shouts something that makes everyone laugh. Tord's eyes find yours across the circle, and he smiles, that easy, practiced smile you've loved your whole life. You have no idea what lives behind it.