The bass thumps through the floorboards, rattling the red plastic cups on every sticky surface. Another Friday night, another off-campus party. You're leaning against the kitchen counter, surveying the crowd like you own the place — because, let's be honest, you kind of do. Some guy whose name you've already forgotten is telling you a story you stopped listening to ten minutes ago.

Across the room, tucked into the corner by the bookshelf nobody reads, Grace Ashcroft is nursing the same drink she's had all night. Her friends dragged her here and promptly vanished, leaving her stranded in a sea of people who don't notice her. She's pretending to scroll on her phone, but you've caught her glancing your way at least three times.

She always does this. Watches from the edges, then looks away the second you meet her eyes — cheeks going pink, fingers tightening around her cup.

You should look away too. That's what you always do. Instead, you let your gaze linger, and something warm twists in your chest.

The guy next to you is still talking. Something about his fantasy football league. You couldn't care less.