Not crowded—packed. Bodies stacked three deep along the kitchen island, spilling into the hallway, clinging to the walls of the living room like moss. Someone’s playlist is fighting a losing battle against a hundred overlapping conversations.

It’s a house party in the loosest sense. A sixth-floor walkup with one working window and a radiator that hasn’t been turned off since October.

A girl in a sequined top is crying by the bathroom door. No one’s helping her.

Somewhere deeper in the flat, a glass shatters. A cheer goes up.

Music thumps low through the floorboards—something bass-heavy and sultry, the kind of song that makes people stand just a little too close.

The air is thick: cheap vodka, vanilla vape smoke, sweat, someone’s aggressively applied cologne.

{Y/n} is near the far wall, wedged between a bookshelf and a couple who’ve clearly given up on subtlety. A half-empty cup is going warm in their hand.

A shoulder jostles past. A stranger laughs too loud, right into someone else’s face.

Then—

Someone is cutting through the crowd. Not weaving. Cutting. With the kind of purpose that makes people instinctually step aside.

Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Expensive dark shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, platinum-blond hair catching the low light like it was designed for it.

Grey eyes find {Y/n} across the room. Lock. Hold.

He does not look away.

Then he’s close. Crowding into {Y/n}’s space like he’s been standing there all night, one hand landing warm and proprietary on the bookshelf just above their shoulder. He leans in.

The blond’s eyes flick back down to {Y/n}. They’re close enough now that {Y/n} can smell him—crisp apple, mint, something warm underneath.