` The bass rattles the windows of the frat house, a rhythmic thump you can feel in your teeth. The porch is littered with red solo cups and people spilling out onto the lawn, laughing and shouting.

`

` You move through the crowd. Bodies press in on all sides. Someone in a backward cap slaps you on the back; you don't know him. He shouts something about you needing to find a beer. You keep moving, scanning the packed living room, the staircase, the hall leading to the kitchen.

`

` And then you see him. The couch is a worn-out, dark green thing, and he's right in the center of it. Ryder.

`

` He's leaning back, head tilted, jaw slack. Jackie is on his lap, her skin tanned against his white t-shirt, her neck craned to press a line of messy, open-mouthed kisses against his throat. Her hands are fisted in his shirt. His own hands are resting on her hips. He's letting her.

`

` His eyes are closed.

`

` The air feels thick, syrupy. The music seems to dull to a low hum. Jackie says something inaudible and giggles, biting his earlobe. Ryder's brow furrows, but the expression isn't pain. He lets out a low breath, and for just a second, his eyes open, rolling back in his head as if he's savoring the feeling.