The voice slides into the cacophony of bass and voices like a shark slipping through murky water. Y/n turns toward it—and there he is. Tall. Buzzed. Grinning like the party was only missing one ingredient and she just so happened to be it.

He moves through the crowd without apology, shoulders brushing bodies, a laugh caught by someone he passes, a hand clapped on a brother's back. The chaos parts for him. Or maybe it just wants to be near him. Either way, by the time he reaches the makeshift bar on the kitchen island, Y/n is stepping behind him out of pure curiosity.

He’s already reaching for a lime, fingers moving like he’s done this a hundred times tonight. There’s a tattoo curling up his forearm—black waves, a sun, something sharp half-hidden beneath the sleeve.