Benji had managed to make it home, though it had been a battle. Swerving through the side streets, gripping the wheel with a little too much force, he fought the sluggish pull of exhaustion with every turn. The world felt too quiet now, stripped of the champagne fizz and murmured gossip, leaving only the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights cutting through the early morning dark.
He was just pulling into the long, sweeping driveway of his parents' estate when the realization hit him—his suit jacket. Left at the party, discarded somewhere after his brief tiff with Evelyn.
"Dammit," he groaned, dropping his head against the steering wheel.
That was going to be a nightmare. His parents were particular about appearances—his father, especially. A missing jacket wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a statement of carelessness, and careless men didn’t deserve the wealth and privilege bestowed upon them. He’d have to make a call, request it be sent back before the entire household descended into quiet disapproval.
With a deep sigh, he climbed out of the car, ignoring the maids who fluttered around the entrance like anxious birds, their expressions hovering somewhere between concern and irritation. He knew how he must look—shirt rumpled, hair a mess, the sheen of sleeplessness and alcohol still clinging to him like a second skin—but he couldn’t be bothered to care.
He took the stairs two at a time, the weight of the night settling into his bones with every step, and collapsed onto his bed. But, of course, rest wouldn’t come.
Benji was a world-class insomniac—had been for years. This was why he stayed at parties as long as he did, until the last note of music faded, until even the most stubborn revelers had succumbed to fatigue. As long as there were people, distractions, noise, he could outrun the quiet. The quiet was dangerous. The quiet meant being alone with his thoughts.
But now, with only the steady ticking of the hall clock to keep him company, the minutes dragged by. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the house pressing in around him, until at last, exhaustion overpowered even his restless mind. The alcohol helped, too. His body, overrun by the past week’s sleepless nights, finally caved, and he dozed fitfully until the chime of the main hall clock marked 8:30 AM.
---
When he woke, it was to the searing, blinding assault of sunlight pouring through the bay windows. The moment he opened his eyes, his head throbbed in protest, the migraine already sinking its claws in deep.
"Fuck," he muttered, throwing an arm over his face.
Every movement sent another sharp pulse of pain through his skull, and for a moment, he debated simply locking himself in his study for the foreseeable future. A dark room, a stiff drink, and no interruptions—that was all he wanted.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
A hesitant knock at the door. Then, a maid's uneasy voice.
"You've got a call, sir," she mumbled. "It's New York."
Benji frowned, dragging himself up from the bed. What the hell did that mean? Who from New York would be calling at this hour? He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing, then pushed himself to his feet and made his way downstairs to the hallway telephone.
Lifting the receiver, he pressed it to his ear. "This is Benji," he said, voice rough with sleep.
It was, in fact, not *New York*—but his best friend, Ryerson Peck.
"Benji, my darling, you’re awake!" Rye’s voice rang through the line, far too loud for this hour, far too cheerful for someone in distress. "Marvelous. Listen, I’m in a bit of a predicament—broke, stranded, and, frankly, looking absolutely wretched. Would you be an absolute pal and rescue me? Also, I’m famished."
Benji sighed. "Where are you?"
"Somewhere near your estate, I believe. It's taken me almost three hours to find a phone booth, and then I had to dig through my pockets for change! I fear if I sit here much longer, I’ll start blending in with the local wildlife."
Benji pinched the bridge of his nose. "Get in a cab, put it on my tab, and come for breakfast. Try not to look like you spent the night in a gutter."
"No promises, old sport," Rye quipped before the line went dead.
Benji rolled his eyes, running a hand through his already disheveled hair, then turned toward the dining room.
The cooks had outdone themselves this morning, knowing their master well. A lavish spread awaited him—plump berries glistening in their bowls, golden crepes folded with delicate precision, and thick strips of perfectly crisped bacon. The scent of fresh coffee curled through the air, promising at least some relief from his hangover.
He had just settled into his chair, inhaling the steam from his coffee, when Rye arrived.
And, true to his word, he looked *god-awful*.
Hair tousled beyond repair, his tie missing, and his usually impeccable suit wrinkled beyond salvation, Rye collapsed into the seat across from him with an exaggerated sigh.
"Good lord," Benji said, eyeing him with faint amusement. "You look like you got into a fight with a windstorm and lost."
"It was a night of grand misadventure," Rye drawled, reaching for a piece of bacon. "And speaking of grand misadventures—tonight. The biggest gala of the season. Hosted by yours truly."
Benji arched a brow. "And this concerns me *how*?"
Rye grinned, bright despite his disheveled state. "I need a co-host. My fiancée is off gallivanting in Virginia with her mother, and I can’t very well do it alone."
Benji exhaled, stirring his coffee lazily. "You assume I want to spend another night entertaining drunken socialites and fending off debutantes? I prefer to have at least 24 hours between events."
"Come now, Benji, you love it."
Benji smirked, but didn’t argue.
He did, after all, have nothing better to do.
Summer Month: 2 
Day 
Earthquake
