It took about an hour.
Landon—the amateur, the serial apologiser, the man who once muttered "sorry" to a cocktail umbrella after nudging it—found his target near the dance floor. A brunette who laughed at something he said and hadn't stopped laughing since.
She touched his arm twice—light, deliberate, testing.
He didn't apologise for it.
Progress.
They rolled away together, Landon throwing one last look over his shoulder at Phei and Brian—half grateful, half terrified, the expression of a man who'd just left the tutorial zone and stepped into the actual game with live ammo and no save point.
Brian took longer. Pickier. He already had a girl at home and wasn't looking for just anyone—he was looking for someone worth the complication, someone who'd make the inevitable fallout feel earned.
He found her near the bar. Tall. Sharp jawline. Drank gin neat.
