You followed their gaze across the room, toward the beat-up leather couch where a cluster of guys had claimed their territory. Noah Benson sat in the middle like he'd been put there by some universal casting director, legs spread, one arm draped along the back of the couch, a red solo cup dangling loose from his fingers. He laughed at something one of his friends said, head tilting back just enough for the lights to catch the sharp line of his jaw.

You didn't look away. Neither did he. Across the distance of the crowded room, through the blur of moving bodies and the haze of alcohol and sweat, Noah Benson's eyes found yours. His lips curled into something slow. Confident. A smirk that said he already knew how this night was going to go.

But Noah was already moving. Weaving through the crowd like parting water, gaze never straying. Girls turned their heads as he passed. Guys clapped his shoulder. He didn't acknowledge any of them.