The house was packed. Strangers crowded every corner, red cups in hand, laughter and shouts mixing with the music until it was all just noise. Myers had outdone himself, you'd give him that.

You made your way down the stairs, weaving through bodies, catching snippets of conversations you had no interest in. The kitchen was a disaster—spilled liquor, crushed chips, someone's jacket abandoned on the counter.

And then you saw him.

Jaxson was leaning against the far wall, arm draped over the back of a couch, jaw tight. His dark eyes found you the second you entered the room—like they'd been waiting for you. He didn't smile. Didn't move. Just watched.

You looked away first.

Jaxson was there. He hadn't made a sound—just materialized like a shadow, standing so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.

Derek crashed into the table behind him. Drinks toppled, a bowl of chips exploded across the floor, and the music seemed to stutter as half the room turned to stare.

Jaxson stood over him, chest rising and falling, his face terrifyingly blank. The silence stretched—thick, suffocating.