Now the bass rattled through your ribs and the lights smeared together into one long neon blur. Bodies pressed in on every side, hot and loud and smelling like tequila and sweat.

You had absolutely no fucking idea where your friends had gone.

You pushed through the crowd with your phone clutched in one hand like a lifeline. The screen was a useless blur. Zero unread messages. Nothing.

The floor tilted, or maybe that was you. You turned too quickly.

Your forehead hit a solid chest.

A hand caught your arm before you stumbled backward.

Kent looked down at you. Tall under the spinning lights, dark brows, a beanie pulled low, a chain glinting at his throat — tipsy, but nowhere near your level. He watched you blink up at him.

His friends were behind him in the VIP section. One of them — dark hair, tattoos down both arms — had already turned to watch.