“Hey, sweets,” Jeremiah says to Amy, hugging her tightly. “Jules said you two had a good time seeing Lizzo?”

“Fuck yeah, she was incredible. Your sister’s wild as hell, though. Can drink me under the table.”

“Don’t tell me that,” he says with a laugh, though he looks secretly proud.

Rowan’s not sure how Amy fits in with the rest of Mal’s friends, doubting that she’s a member of the club herself, but it goes to show how close Mal is with both her and his friends.

“Speaking of…,” Amy says, eyeing the group. “Why are we not drunk yet?”

“Shots!” Camilla declares, slinging an arm around both the Savaryns and tugging them off toward the bar.

And with that, Rowan’s crowded around Mal at the bar with one shot of tequila burning his throat, six thunks of empty shot glasses ringing in his ear, and two golden eyes boring holes into his own.

“Happy birthday, darling!” Clover shouts, giving Mal a side hug.

Jeremiah flags down a bartender, leans across the bar, and whispers something to her. She smiles and, a moment later, places a shot glass with shimmery blue liquid straight down in front of Mal, adding a shot of something clear on top. With the whoosh of a blowtorch, the shot bursts into a deep blue flame before the bartender pours on a lighter yellow drink and the fire erupts into a sparkling, crackling blue-orange flame while the drink transforms into a swirling sea of bright purple.

“The fuck is this, Jer?” Mal shouts, picking it up and holding the flaming purple drink two full feet away from his face.

“A phoenix. Quick, make a wish!”

As Mal bows his head to blow out the flame, lips puckered into a sweet O shape, he once again locks eyes with Rowan. The cheering around them as the fire is extinguished with a puff of air is completely lost on Rowan, gaze focused solely on the cords of Mal’s neck as he throws back the shot.

“Tastes like a fuckin’ flower…,” Mal says, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips as he slams the glass onto the bar top. “All right, someone get me a real drink!”

As if by another feat of magic, an old-fashioned materializes next to Mal’s hand, Camilla winking at him across the top of what looks like a Long Island. Everyone else orders, Rowan settling on a beer on tap, and gets their drinks with loose fives and tens tossed onto the bar top for each one.

“I got us a table and started a tab,” Jeremiah calls to the group, ushering everyone to a secluded table with a small white Reserved—Savaryn placard on it. Prime real estate, being so close to both the bar and the dance floor.

The music is something vaguely synth-pop that Rowan would normally hate were it not for the alcohol already working its way through his bloodstream and loosening his metaphorical tie.