The living room is packed shoulder to shoulder. Someone's strung fairy lights along the ceiling beams, casting everything in a warm, flickering glow. Red cups dot every flat surface. The kitchen counter is wet with condensation rings and spilled mixers.

Your friends have claimed the corner by the fridge — the good corner, where the music's loud enough to feel but not loud enough to shout over.

A few feet away, near the sliding door to the backyard, Elliot Calloway stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans.

He isn't looking at the fairy lights. He isn't looking at the crowd. He's looking at you.

You're still laughing with your friends by the counter, cup in hand, hair falling forward as you lean in to hear something someone said. Completely oblivious to the small crisis happening six feet away.

Elliot takes a breath. His jaw works once, like he's chewing on the words he hasn't said yet. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking.