Andrew opened the apartment door with his foot, a cold bottle of lemonade balanced on a stack of precariously packed books in his arms. He squinted against the sunlight flooding in from the hallway.

"Okay, I don't mean to be dramatic," he announced, voice slightly strained, "but if you've packed one more box of vintage action figures, I'm filing a formal complaint with the Department of Why Is This Still Your Personality?"

From down the hallway came the unmistakable sound of Daniel wheeling a suitcase that absolutely did not want to cooperate, its wheels squealing in protest like it was possessed by the ghosts of Little Hope's crankiest spirits.

"They're collectibles, Andrew," Daniel called out, breathless and grunting as he tried to haul a guitar case and a full laundry basket at the same time. "And I refuse to let you insult Luke Skywalker's legacy just because you think minimalism is a personality trait."

"I just think it's weird that a man owns more lightsabers than towels."

Daniel finally appeared at the door, panting and flushed, his hat now backward and his t-shirt suspiciously drenched in sweat like he had just come from a training montage.

"I own four towels," he wheezed. "Two are technically beach towels, but I think they count."

Andrew set the books down on the coffee table—already cluttered with half-unpacked kitchen stuff, at least one sock that had no known owner, and a pack of gummy worms that had mysteriously migrated from the moving boxes.

The apartment looked like it had been hit by a small, fandom-obsessed hurricane.

"I feel like we've been moving boxes since sunrise," Andrew muttered.

"We started at eleven," Daniel pointed out.

"Exactly."

They both collapsed on the couch at the same time—Andrew careful not to crush the unopened box labeled "Daniel's Important Misc. (Do Not Touch!)" in black Sharpie, and Daniel sprawling across the cushions like a starfish in emotional recovery.

"This is a disaster," Andrew sighed.

"It's a beautiful disaster," Daniel corrected. "And soon it'll be our disaster."

Andrew leaned his head back, eyes closed. "If one more person calls us 'basically married' during this move, I might actually propose just out of spite."

Daniel grinned lazily. "Honestly, at this point, it would save on taxes."

They sat in blissful silence, letting the exhaustion settle into their limbs. Somewhere in the kitchen, a cabinet door creaked ominously open without assistance. Daniel eyed it suspiciously.

"Your apartment's haunted, dude."

"No, it's just old. That's what doors do."

Daniel squinted. "Nope. That's ghost stuff. I've seen enough to know the difference."

Andrew groaned and threw a pillow at him. "If my apartment gets haunted again, you're personally responsible."

"I accept this destiny," Daniel said, hugging the pillow with mock solemnity. "Speaking of destiny…"

Andrew cracked one eye open. "Oh no."

Daniel suddenly sat up on the couch with far too much energy for someone who had just lugged boxes up two flights of stairs and battled a rogue suitcase.

"I have a proposal."

"If this is marriage again, I need time."

Daniel smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "No, I'm serious. There's this party tonight. At The Wandering Owl."

"The weird college bar with the string lights and the bartender who calls everyone 'cowpoke'?"

"The very one," Daniel said proudly. "And tonight, they're throwing a Taylor Swift Eras themed party."

Andrew stared.

"Like… people dress up? Like… different album eras?"

"Exactly! There'll be music, themed cocktails—there's one called The Champagne Problems—a costume contest, a lip-sync battle, trivia, the whole glittery shebang."

Andrew blinked slowly. "And you want us to go to this."

"I want you to go with me," Daniel said, nudging him with his foot. "As your best friend, as your platonic soulmate, and as a man who knows you sang Enchanted in the shower last week."

"That was a private moment."

"There are no private moments in a shared bathroom," Daniel said sagely.

Andrew sighed, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the meaning of life. "What if I say no?"

"Then I'll guilt you into saying yes over the course of six increasingly dramatic monologues."

Andrew looked at him. "You planned this."

"I absolutely planned this," Daniel admitted. "We've been unpacking boxes all day. We deserve glitter, synth-pop, and yelling Don't Blame Me at the top of our lungs like we're healing from imaginary breakups."

Andrew paused. "Is there a 'Folklore Forest' corner at this party?"

Daniel's grin widened. "There is a literal corner with fake trees and someone dressed as a cardigan. I am not joking."

Andrew gave a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Fine. We'll go. But if I get glitter in my sneakers, I'm mailing it to you in an envelope every week until I die."

"Deal." Daniel offered his hand. "I'm going as 1989. You?"

Andrew shook it. "Reputation. Because I contain multitudes."

Daniel whooped. "YES. We're gonna be the glittery chaos gods of that dance floor."

Andrew grinned, standing up. "Let's unpack the essentials. Outfits, eyeliner, and emotionally specific playlists."

As they began rummaging through Daniel's labeled boxes—one of which was full of neon sunglasses and glittery scarves—it hit Andrew like a soft, unexpected wave:

There was no fog now. No cursed towns. No ghosts of guilt dragging them down.

Just this—boxes and laughter, best friend proposals and midnight Swiftie parties.

And as Daniel held up a silver jacket that looked like it came straight from the Look What You Made Me Do vault, Andrew knew:

This wasn't just the start of shared rent and arguments about dish soap.

This was home.

And tonight?

Tonight, they were going to dance like their trauma never stood a chance.