The morning sun filtered into the small apartment like a gentle spotlight, falling across a tangled pile of clothes, glittery feather boas, and two emotionally wrecked but content humans sprawled across their respective couches.

Andrew groaned.

He wasn't sure if it was the sore legs, the emotional hangover from belting Taylor Swift lyrics for five hours straight, or the fact that his throat still felt like it had done battle with a cactus. He rolled over on the couch, half-blinded by the sunlight, and squinted in the general direction of the kitchen.

Daniel was already awake.

Kind of.

He was standing in pajama pants and a tank top, his hair messier than usual (which was saying something), staring into the fridge with a deeply confused expression like the milk had just confessed to a crime.

"Good morning," Andrew croaked. "Did you sleep or just… reboot like an emotional Roomba?"

Daniel jumped. "Jesus—don't sneak up on me with your sleepy haunted house voice."

"I'm literally lying down."

Daniel closed the fridge with a sigh. "We have one egg. One. This is not enough to sustain two dramatic men recovering from a glitter-based emotional collapse."

Andrew sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "We have bread?"

"Bread, yes. Egg, yes. One half-used stick of butter that smells like trauma. And three individually wrapped processed cheese slices that expired in February."

Andrew shrugged. "French toast it is."

Daniel turned with a grin. "That's the spirit. Let's make breakfast and talk about our feelings like healthy, grown men."

Ten minutes later, the apartment was filled with the sound of sizzling and Daniel mumbling along to Lana Del Rey's Brooklyn Baby on his phone.

"Ugh, Lana is such a mood," Daniel said, flipping the sad, lopsided toast with flair. "Her voice makes me feel like I'm draped across a vintage couch in slow motion."

Andrew blinked from where he was stirring coffee. "Wasn't she your gym playlist for like, three months?"

"Yeah," Daniel said. "For lifting emotions."

Andrew laughed. "I'm just saying… between her, Britney Spears, and Madonna, you've got the full spectrum of powerful pop icon energy."

Daniel turned dramatically. "As I should."

Andrew sipped his coffee and added, "For the record, I also listen to Lana and Britney. But I'm more of a Nelly Furtado guy than a Madonna one."

Daniel dropped the spatula. "Wait—you don't listen to Madonna?"

"I mean, I know Madonna. But like… casually. I wasn't raised on Madonna."

Daniel stared like he had just confessed to never using the internet. "That explains so much."

"Excuse you."

"No wonder you're so mysterious and emotionally cautious. You didn't grow up shouting Express Yourself into a hairbrush."

Andrew smirked. "I was more Trynna dance with no pants on to 'Maneater' at 13."

Daniel high-fived him mid-toast. "Okay, that earns you redemption."

They sat down with their questionable French toast and coffee, half-laughing, half-wincing at their own choices. Daniel had added a little cinnamon and pride to the toast. Andrew had added too much syrup, like he was trying to bury his feelings in maple.

"I've been thinking," Andrew said between bites. "We need a playlist."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "A bromance playlist?"

"The ultimate bromance playlist. Our songs. Our vibes. Our weird genre overlaps."

Daniel grinned. "I love this plan. I will overthink every song choice with an unhealthy level of emotional attachment."

Andrew grabbed his phone and opened Spotify. "Okay. First, Britney Spears. Gotta start strong."

Daniel cracked his knuckles like he was about to enter a musical debate arena. "Top three?"

"Go."

"'Everytime,'" Daniel said immediately. "Because sad. 'Toxic,' because obviously iconic. And 'Boys,' because I love drama."

Andrew nodded. "Solid. Strong chaotic-flirty-sad energy. Respectable."

Daniel leaned in. "Your turn."

Andrew grinned. "Okay—'Break The Ice.' Total underrated banger. Futuristic, cold, sexy."

Daniel clapped. "Yes. YES. Finally someone else respects 'Break The Ice.'"

"'Blur,'" Andrew continued, "because it sounds like a hangover and regret but somehow still beautiful."

Daniel paused. "That is… so you."

"And 'My Prerogative,'" Andrew added with a wink. "Because nobody tells Andrew Clarke what to do."

Daniel looked personally attacked. "Okay, yours are better than mine. I feel seen."

They laughed again, leaning over the table, humming different Britney songs while picking syrup off their fingers.

"Okay," Daniel said. "Final category: Taylor Swift. Hit me."

Andrew thought for a second. "Alright. 'Enchanted,' because I'm a sucker for romantic idealism. 'Cruel Summer,' because that bridge, and 'My Tears Ricochet,' because sometimes I need to cry in poetic metaphors."

Daniel covered his heart. "You're a dramatic little Swiftie, aren't you?"

"You danced to Bejeweled in a tank top."

"True."

Daniel smiled. "Alright. For me—'I Think He Knows,' because I'm legally required to strut during it. 'All Too Well (10 Minute Version),' because I like my trauma in long form. And… 'Style.' Because it's the musical equivalent of hot eyeliner and bad decisions."

Andrew laughed. "Okay, yeah. That tracks."

They sat for a moment, toasting their mugs in victory.

"So," Daniel said. "What do we call this playlist?"

Andrew thought for a second. "Emo Glitter Bros: The Deluxe Edition."

Daniel grinned. "Featuring the ghosts of our exes and the hope we found in synth-pop."

They hit save.

And as the sun rose higher, the two of them leaned back in their chairs—full bellies, tired eyes, a playlist now living forever in the cloud, and a friendship sealed in syrup, Britney Spears, and the knowledge that sometimes, the best way to heal from horror is to sing about it... loudly, dramatically, and with someone who knows all your favorite tracks by heart.