Last dance of the night, last dance of the year; Kira doesn't need Ty's clammy nerves to infect him through the touch, and when his jaw tightens at the corner, it isn't to steel himself against them.

There are tragedies to being eighteen, glittering, out on the town. They have nothing to do with this, but he'd have to put it on the list if he pulled away from it.

Just once--just once, and he already knows it won't be a thing he tells himself one time. Eighteen is selfish, and very likely, so shall many years after be. "I don't need stilts," he says, tugging Ty's hand around to the small of his back and leaning in, resting forehead to chest as they move.