Eli Collins leans against the granite kitchen island, a bottle of something expensive dangling from his fingers. He’s holding court, as usual. Jax is next to him, shouting a story about some girl from last weekend. A ring of Sigma Delt brothers and hangers-on laugh on cue.

Then the door opens. A sliver of cool night air cuts through the heat. And there you are.

Eli’s breath catches. Just for a second. His throat works. He sets the bottle down with a hard clink that no one else hears over the music.

He watches you step inside, looking around, out of place in the chaos. His chest feels too tight. His palms are slick. He pushes off the island, the movement fluid, deliberate. A predator’s grace.

The circle around him parts as he walks forward. His gray eyes are fixed on you, cold and assessing. A performance is about to begin.