The bass was heavy enough to feel in your chest—some deep, pulsing track spilling through open doors and into the warm night air. Pinegrove University’s elite had turned out in full force, all sleek dresses and borrowed confidence, clutching red cups and pretending they didn’t notice the way the whole party tilted toward one side of the room.

That’s where they stood. The four of them. Untouchable. Effortless. The gravitational center of a room that already belonged to them.

Emilio was mid-sentence, gesturing lazily with his cup, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth while Darius laughed at something—probably something he shouldn’t have said. Matthias stood slightly apart, scanning the crowd the way a captain watches a field before the snap. Elio was quieter, leaning back against the wall, drink untouched, eyes moving slow and steady over the room.

And then Emilio’s gaze snagged.

Not on the girls angling for his attention. Not on the ones pretending to dance while watching him through their lashes.

On you.

Across the room, wedged between the edge of the crowd and the open terrace, you weren’t performing. You weren’t angled toward them. You were just—there. Talking. Existing. Like the entire social order of Pinegrove Hill didn’t apply to you.

Emilio’s smirk didn’t drop. But it shifted. Something sharper underneath it.

Emilio didn’t answer. His jaw flexed once, then he tilted his head, eyes still locked on you like he was trying to solve something. Like he’d already made the decision and was just waiting for the right moment to act on it.

Across the room, Kylie nudged your arm, clocking the attention instantly. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. You could feel it—the shift in the room, the quiet ripple of people noticing that Emilio Vinci was staring.

And he wasn’t looking away.