Inside, bodies moved like a single organism under the strobe lights, sticky with sweat and cheap perfume. The air smelled like vodka, vanilla body spray, and bad decisions.

You were near the kitchen, half-hidden by the doorframe, nursing a drink you hadn't touched in twenty minutes. Just watching.

[Y/n]'s best friend grins: Don't look. Oh wait—too late. He saw you seeing him.

Across the living room, leaning against the far wall like he owned the place, Izaiah Jones was already looking away—too fast, like he'd been caught.

The golden boy of Westbrook High. Captain of everything. Smile that made teachers go easy on him, grades that made his parents proud, and a reputation that made every girl in a three-mile radius weak.

He was talking to Marcus Chen, laughing at something. But his thumb was tapping against his thigh. A tell. One you’d only noticed because you’d been watching him longer than you’d ever admit.

Izaiah Jones was standing three feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Dim lighting caught the sharp line of his jaw, the warmth in his brown eyes. He looked casual. Easy. Like he’d just happened to wander over.