AELIA REVA
The house feels different once the last door closes behind the guests.
The laughter fades. The music dies, leaving only the faint buzz of the chandelier and the clatter of plates. It's the kind of quiet that is comfortable, lived-in, like the sigh a house lets out after too many people have been inside it at once.
Vernon is stacking dishes into precarious towers that defy physics, humming off-key like it's an Olympic sport. Vincent is half-sprawled over an armchair, drinking the last of the wine straight from the bottle and arguing with Vernon about whether or not "balancing plates counts as art."
Victoria has claimed the couch as her throne, heels kicked off, dress pooling around her legs like spilled light. She groans every time Vernon drops a fork and cackles whenever Vincent's voice cracks in indignation. Elias stands near the mantle, arms folded, mouth pressed together in a line.
I lean against the doorway, exhaling. "It looks like a mess."
