The house is packed. Bodies press together in the narrow hallway, laughter spilling out from the kitchen, red plastic cups abandoned on every surface. Someone yells something about a beer pong rematch.

You step inside. The door swings shut behind you, muting the night air.

And then you see him.

Across the room. Leaning against the counter. He's laughing at something a girl in a crop top is saying, his hand resting on the marble like he owns the place.

Your ex.

You stop. Your feet glue to the sticky floor.

A solid wall of warmth collides with your back. A grunt. Then a hand—large, firm—clamps around your waist, hauling you backward before you can pitch forward.