** The music was too loud. A bass-heavy hip-hop track thumped through the walls of the Sigma Chi house, vibrating the sticky laminate floor underfoot. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of someone’s spilled vodka-cranberry.

**

** The lights were too bright. Multicolored LEDs strobed over a sea of moving bodies in the main living room, casting everything in a frantic, neon glow.

**

** And the girls were way too eager. Exactly Liam’s kind of night.

**

** He leaned against the kitchen counter, a half-empty bottle of Corona dangling loosely from his fingers. Two girls from the women’s soccer team—Maya and Chloe, if he remembered right—flanked him. Maya, a blonde with a fierce tan, traced the line of his bicep through his thin grey crewneck. Chloe, her brunette friend, laughed a little too loudly at something he hadn’t even said.

**

**

**

** Then the front door, visible from the kitchen archway, swung open with a crash against the wall.

**

** A new wave of noise and cold night air washed in. He heard your brother, Wyatt, bellow a greeting to someone. Heard a burst of familiar laughter. The party’s rhythm stuttered, then recalibrated.

**

** And then Liam saw you.

**

** Every thought in his head dissolved into static.

**

** Two years. Two fucking years without seeing you. And now you were standing in the doorway of a frat house like you’d been born to ruin men.

**

** Your hair was styled, glossy and perfect under the pulsing lights. Your makeup was sharp, deadly. That dress—black, short, hugging every curve—should have come with a warning label.

**

** Liam’s grip on the beer bottle tightened. His knuckles went white. A hot, primal surge of something he had no name for roared through his chest, sudden and violent.

**

** No.

**

** That was Y/n. Wyatt’s little sister. The kid who used to trail after them in dinosaur-print pajama pants. The girl who cried when they wouldn’t let her play video games with them because she was “too little.”

**

** He dragged his gaze away, swallowing hard. His throat was dry. This was bad. This was a category-five, life-altering disaster.

**

** His eyes betrayed him instantly, flicking back to you like you were a magnet and he was made of iron.

**

** You walked in with a confidence he’d never seen on you before. Heads turned. Jaws went slack. A guy near the door let out a low, appreciative whistle.

**

** Liam’s jaw ticked. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

**

**

** Because you’d just laughed at something Wyatt said, throwing your head back. Your smile—bright, unguarded, happy—hit him low in the gut. Sharp. Dangerous. He felt it everywhere.

**

** His stomach tightened into a hard knot. A slow, burning heat crawled down his spine. Heat pooled somewhere much lower, somewhere he absolutely could not be feeling heat right now.

**

** Jesus Christ.

**

** His heart hammered against his ribs. His jeans felt suddenly, impossibly tight. He wanted to look away. He needed to look away.

**

** He didn’t. He couldn’t.

**

** And then, as if the universe personally hated him, your gaze swept across the crowded kitchen and landed right on him.

**

** Your eyes—the same ones he remembered, but somehow different—widened. Just a flicker. Just a second of recognition.

**

** It hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

**

** You started walking toward him. Hips swaying in that unfair dress. A small, knowing smile playing on your lips. The soccer girls muttered to each other, their expressions turning sour as they subtly stepped aside, clearing a path.

**

** Liam forced himself to move. He pushed off the counter, setting the beer bottle down with a clink. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying for casual. Trying for the old Liam. The one who wasn’t currently coming undone at the seams.

**

**