The vibe in Andrew and Daniel's apartment was what one could only describe as "casual chaos with a hint of overcooked popcorn." The living room looked lived-in: hoodie-strewn couch, a box of Cards Against Humanity open on the coffee table, two half-empty LaCroix cans, and a faint scent of citrus-scented Febreze that Daniel had "accidentally" sprayed into the air while chasing a suspicious-looking fruit fly.

They were sprawled on the couch—Daniel upside down with his legs over the backrest like a confused bat, and Andrew curled up under a blanket like a human burrito. Taylor Swift's "Style" played quietly in the background from the speaker, which had been looping through emotionally revealing pop discography mode all afternoon.

"I have a question," Andrew said, staring at the ceiling.

Daniel peeked over, his upside-down face already suspicious. "Is it existential? Because I emotionally maxed out after we deep-dived that One Direction conspiracy theory earlier."

Andrew grinned. "No, it's just… I realized I don't even know your full name."

Daniel blinked. "Oh. That's it?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"…And I'm suddenly self-conscious about it for no reason."

Andrew raised a brow. "Why? You in witness protection?"

Daniel groaned, flipping onto his stomach. "No, it's just—Daniel Marcus Fields. It sounds like I was named after a minor league baseball player from the '80s."

Andrew laughed. "Okay, but Marcus adds drama. Like, you could say it and then stare into the distance as if haunted by a past you'll never speak of again."

"Daniel Marcus Fields," Daniel repeated, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. "Betrayed at the playground. Avenged through sarcasm and mediocre espresso."

Andrew cracked up. "Wait, do people actually call you Marcus?"

Daniel narrowed his eyes. "Only my aunt when she's mad. Which is often."

"And Fields—okay, that feels very 'young adult novel love interest.' Like, Daniel Fields stood by the lockers, brooding."

Daniel sat up, pointing. "STOP. You're going to make me think I peaked in a fictional universe."

Andrew grinned, and then—he hesitated. Just for a second. His eyes lingered on Daniel a little longer. Daniel's hair was still messy from their earlier Too Hot To Handle binge, and there was a smudge of popcorn butter on his sweatshirt. He was animated, loud, and laughing like he always did—with his whole face.

And, suddenly, Andrew's stomach flipped.

Oh no.

Daniel noticed. "You okay? You just made a face like you remembered taxes exist."

Andrew cleared his throat. "Just thinking."

"Thinking what?"

Andrew hesitated again, then asked, carefully, "Hey... are you gay?"

Daniel blinked. Hard. "...Did you just soft-launch a sexuality inquiry?"

Andrew held up a hand. "It's not judgmental! Just... curious."

Daniel blinked again. "That's fair. It's just... wow. That came out of nowhere."

Andrew scratched the back of his head. "I mean, we've been hanging out forever. And sometimes you do that thing where you sing Britney with too much conviction."

Daniel pointed. "Okay, rude but accurate."

Andrew shrugged. "And I just—like, today you looked good. Like really good. And I thought, maybe it's fair to ask."

Daniel leaned back, smiling. "Well, for the record… I'm bi."

Andrew blinked. "Oh."

Daniel grinned. "And for your record, I appreciate you asking instead of just assuming. Gold star for respectful bro behavior."

Andrew smiled. "Gold star accepted."

They let that sit for a second—an honest, unexpected little moment among bagel crumbs and pop music.

Then Daniel grinned. "Anyway. Back to Britney. You ready?"

Andrew nodded. "Always."

Daniel snapped his fingers dramatically. "Okay. Blackout era. Peak chaos. Peak legend."

"2007," Andrew added, "The year of the umbrella and shaved head. The media was ruthless."

"Criminally so," Daniel said, sitting up straighter. "But Blackout gave us 'Gimme More,' 'Piece of Me,' and 'Radar.' And Britney Jean came out of the ashes. It was her villain origin story and her redemption arc."

Andrew nodded solemnly. "And the #FreeBritney movement changed everything. The fans basically became her legal team."

Daniel clutched his chest. "It was like Swifties and the Britney Army united to become the Avengers."

"I cried during the documentary," Andrew admitted.

Daniel patted his knee. "We all did, buddy."

Just as Andrew reached for a leftover mozzarella stick, Daniel's phone buzzed.

He checked it, and his eyebrows shot up. "Oh, it's Mike. From the football team."

Andrew tilted his head. "The one who brought nachos to your intro to astronomy final?"

"The very one." Daniel read the text aloud. "'Yo, bro, sorority party tonight. Bring your sad roommate if he's free.'"

Andrew blinked. "...I'm the sad roommate."

Daniel smirked. "You are. But I'm about to fix that."

He started typing. "Two sad bros, reporting for duty."

Andrew narrowed his eyes. "Define 'party.'"

"Free food. Music. Possibly embarrassing games. And a lot of people who definitely don't organize their vinyls alphabetically like you do."

Andrew sighed, but he was smiling. "Fine. But if I'm going to be socially overwhelmed, I'm dragging you down with me."

Daniel beamed. "It's a bro date."

Andrew blinked. "A what now?"

"A bro date!" Daniel tossed him a hoodie. "We show up, look good, pretend to be cooler than we are, and emotionally support each other while silently judging other people's playlists."

Andrew stood up, hoodie in hand. "I am... weirdly into this."

Daniel nodded, grabbing his keys. "And hey—if things get weird, we bail early and come back for a vinyl wind-down."

Andrew smiled, following him toward the door. "Deal."

As they headed out, Daniel glanced at him and added, "Also... you're not too bad yourself, Clarke."

Andrew looked over. "What?"

Daniel winked. "Just saying. You looked good today too."

And with that, the door clicked shut behind them.

Off to the party.

Two best friends.

Two playlists deep into their feelings.

And maybe—just maybe—on the verge of discovering that some bro dates?

Aren't just for bros.