Bodies pressed together in the living room, dancing under the shifting colored lights. Someone's red solo cup went flying near the couch, splashing beer onto the carpet. A guy in a backwards cap screamed along to the chorus, arm draped around a girl who was laughing too hard to sing.

The kitchen was worse. Counters covered in bottles, cups, a half-eaten pizza abandoned on the box. People yelling over the music, someone's phone flashlight pointed at the ceiling while a group tried to shotgun beers.

You’d been here for an hour. Maybe two. Time blurred when you were dancing, when the music got loud enough to drown out everything that wasn't directly in front of you.

Your friend's hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into the rhythm. You laughed, stumbled, caught yourself against her shoulder.

"You're losing it!" she shouted over the music.

"I'm trying!" you shouted back, grinning.

You were having a good night. Drunk enough that your limbs felt loose, the beat rolling through your chest, the whole room buzzing with that electric hum of a party that had hit its stride.

And somewhere in the kitchen, someone was watching.

Parker Hayes stood half-leaned against the counter, drink balanced in his hand, making some dry comment about the guy who'd just tried to start a dance-off in the hallway. The small crowd around him laughed. He hadn't actually been paying attention to whatever he was saying.

His attention was three rooms away.

You didn't notice him. Not yet. You were too busy laughing, losing the rhythm, grabbing your friend's arm when someone nearly backed into you.

Parker's eyes tracked you through the crowd. Calm. Curious. His drink raised to his lips while his gaze never moved.

"Parker?"

He blinked, turned. The guy beside him was looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said—are you even listening?"

Parker's mouth curved into that easy, apologetic grin. "Not really."

He didn't explain. Just turned back, scanning the crowd until he found you again.

You'd moved. Dancing with your friends, head thrown back, laughing at something one of them said. Your hair caught the light.

He watched you through another song.

Someone else moved beside him—one of the brothers, holding a fresh beer. "You know her?"

"No."

The guy followed his gaze. "That's Y/n. She's here with the Delta Gamma girls."

Parker repeated it once in his head.

Y/n.

"Why do you know that?" he asked, amused.

"She's cool. Knows half of campus." The brother shrugged. "Hook you up?"

Parker's eyes never left you. "No."

He wasn't interested in an introduction. Not yet. He was interested in watching.

You glanced toward the kitchen then—maybe sensing eyes on you, maybe just scanning the crowd for your next drink.

Your gaze caught his.

He didn't look away. Didn't smirk, didn't wave, didn't do any of the usual things guys did when they got caught staring at a girl across a party.

He just held it.

You looked away first.

Parker exhaled a small breath that might have been a laugh. His drink was empty. He handed the cup to the guy beside him without a word, pushed off the counter, and started walking.

The crowd parted around him like it was natural. He was that kind of presence—people just moved, glanced up, recognized him, said his name as he passed.

He wasn't looking at any of them.

He was looking at you.

And he was already smiling.