The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me feel alive for the first time in months.
By the time the doorbell rings, laughter spilling in from the porch, the house is alive with music and voices. People crowdthe living room, costumes bright under the orange glow of string lights. The Storm Cats thunder inside, rowdy and loud, their energy filling every corner.
I linger at the top of the stairs, heart hammering. My eyes sweep over the crowd, searching.
And then I see him.
Triston.
His eyes lock on me the moment I appear, as if the rest of the party doesn’t exist.
My breath catches, the world narrowing until it’s just him and me, separated by a sea of people but already colliding in ways I can’t escape.
I should run. But I don’t.
The house is alive in a way it hasn’t been for a year. Music thunders through the speakers, rattling the framed photos on the wall. Laughter rises and falls like waves, the sound of beer bottles clinking together, the shuffle of costumes brushing past me as people crowd into every corner.
It should feel warm, comforting. It should feel like Andrew is here again, with his crooked smile and his ridiculous pranks. For everyone else, maybe this party is fun. But for me? It’s a storm. A blur of sound and movement that leaves me dizzy.
And somewhere inside it—he’s here.
Triston.
I feel him before I see him. A weight pressing down on my skin, heat crawling up the back of my neck. I push through a cluster of people dressed as vampires, force a smile when someone waves at me, but my chest tightens with every step. My pulse doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to him.
Then I see him.
He’s in the corner near the kitchen, towering above the crowd. Not in costume, not like everyone else. Just dark jeans, a black shirt stretched tight across his chest, a jacket slung carelesslyover one arm. He doesn’t need a mask or paint. His presence is enough. His eyes lock onto mine across the room, and the air in my lungs vanishes.
The party keeps spinning, but it feels like it’s only the two of us.
I turn away too quickly, bumping into a girl with fairy wings. She laughs it off, but my cheeks burn. My dad’s voice carries from somewhere in the living room, deep and commanding as he talks with some of the older players. Relief and panic twist together—relief that he’s distracted, panic that he could look up at any moment and see exactly what’s happening.
I make it halfway down the hall before I feel him.
He’s close.
A shadow against my shoulder, a warmth cutting through the drafty air as his arm brushes mine. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to. My body already knows it’s him.
When the force of his body presses me tightly against the wall my thighs squeeze together before my pulse hums in the place of desire.
He drops his mouth to my ear. “You wore that for me.” His voice is low, barely audible under the pounding bass of the music.
My breath hitches. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did.” His tone sharpens, not cruel, but certain. He leans down, his lips nearly grazing my ear. “I knew you would.”
Every nerve in my body is on fire. I grip the cup in my hand tighter, desperate to hide the tremor in my fingers. The hallway feels too narrow, too exposed. Anyone could walk by. My dad could turn the corner. But Triston doesn’t care. His nearness makes it impossible for me to care, too.
“We shouldn’t—” I whisper, but it dies in my throat when his hand brushes my lower back, fleeting but deliberate.
My heart hammers. I know what my dad would say if he saw. I know what Andrew would think if he were still here. But none of it matters when Triston’s eyes are on me like this, burning through every layer of fear and grief until there’s only heat left.
“Later,” he murmurs, his voice a promise, a threat. “When the lights go down.”
Then he’s gone. Back into the swell of the crowd, leaving me pressed against the wall, trembling like I’ve been touched by fire.
I force myself to breathe, force myself to straighten, to slip back into the party as if nothing happened. But the taste of him lingers in the air, haunting me.
