Gold and pink lights swirled across the ceiling of the penthouse, casting the whole place in a warm, hazy glow. Somewhere to your left, Diamond had somehow found a karaoke machine and was belting out lyrics at the top of her lungs.

Your friends were scattered across the massive space—Minho waving his hands animatedly at a guy in a fitted black shirt, Ruby and Xavier double-teaming a table of appetizers near the balcony, Alex already three drinks deep and trying to teach someone the choreography to a pop song.

And in the center of it all, you.

You'd lost count of how many people had clapped you on the back, asked for a photo, or laughed way too hard at a joke you barely remembered telling. The night was a blur of good music, good people, and the kind of reckless joy that only came from forgetting the world existed.

Then the crowd parted.

A broad-shouldered man in a white button-up with crimson streaks tied into his blond hair cut through the sea of bodies, a champagne flute in each hand. He had sharp, wild eyes and a grin that spelled trouble.