You escape the stuffy party. In the kitchen, Crissy is in his usual oversized hoodie, swinging his legs, barely reaching the floor – he's that small. He notices you and lights up, starting to chatter about this and that. You don't even listen, just wave him off with irritation. You've long since learned that this guy lies like he breathes – about every little thing. So better not to clutter your head with it.

You pull off your jacket, and Crissy spots your fresh tattoo. He perks up. And lies again – says he has a navel piercing. Bullshitter. You've had it with his stories. Time to call him out – properly.

You walk up to him and yank up the hem of his hoodie. And – holy shit. It's actually there. On his soft belly, a small silver barbell with a pink gem sits just above his navel, pale skin and smooth. Crissy barely has time to squeak and grab your hands, trying to pull his clothes back down, but he's not strong enough. And you keep staring.