I avoid parties like this. Unless we’re the ones playing, and even then I’m counting the minutes until we can pack the amps and leave.
But tonight’s different. Because he’s here, and he invited me.
It doesn’t take long to find him.
Ollie Marshall stands like a goddamn beacon in the middle of his team, head above the crowd, shoulders square in a plain black tee. He’s not the loudest. Not even close. But he’s still the center. The others orbit him, laughing too hard, jostling each other. He just smiles, restrained, polite. A captain even here.
Then his gaze sweeps the room and snags on me.
His cheeks pinken—just a shade, but I see it. That same tell I saw in the gym, the one that lit up “Crimson High” in my head.
I don’t grin. Not outright. But inside, something sharp and hot unfurls.
“Go on, then,” Drew says, reappearing at my side with two beers. He presses one into my hand. “Don’t leave your captain waiting.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but my feet are already moving.
The team notices me first.
“Hey, Band Guy,” one of them says. “Good to see you, man.”
I salute him with my beer. “You too.”
Another elbows Ollie in the ribs. “Hell, Marshall, we should have organized his band to play tonight.”
Before he can respond, someone pulls his friend away with an arm around the neck and something about belly shots.
The tide of bodies shifts, loud and sloppy, until it drags the last of his teammates away. We’re left in the corner, pressed near the wall where the shadows from the string lights soften everything. It’s not private—not really—but it’s close enough to pretend.
“Hey,” I say to him.
“Hey,” he answers, low and guarded.
It’s awkward, tense even, but it’s a start.
I take a sip of my beer, more for something to do with my hands than thirst. “Sent the demo this morning,” I say, voice pitched low, like even the noise around us might overhear.
His eyes flick to me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I lean back against the wall and try for casual even though my chest is buzzing. “Three tracks. One fast, one heavy, one that drags like hell but crushes anyway.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Which ones?”
“‘Blackout,’ ‘Cinder,’ and one of the new ones.” My throat tightens around the name I don’t say:“Crimson High.”
He nods slowly, gaze locked on mine. “I’d love to hear them.” His tone is even, but there’s something under it, like the hum of feedback before a song kicks in.
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The noise of the party swells around us—shouts from the kitchen, the thump of bass through shitty speakers, laughter spilling from the hallway—but it feels far away. Here, it’s just him, shoulders squared, beer forgotten in his hand, eyes that don’t let me go.
I shift closer to the wall, enough that my arm almost brushes his. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, to breathe the sharp bite of whatever cologne clings to his shirt. Ifanyone glances our way, it’ll look like two guys talking. Nothing suspicious. Just casual. Normal.
Except it’s not.
The want hangs between us, thick and restless. I can see it in the way his jaw ticks, in the way he keeps his voice low, in the way his eyes dip for half a second to my mouth before snapping back up like he’s scolding himself.
I swallow hard. “I’ll play you the tracks. Just us.”
His breath catches. It’s quiet, but I hear it. Then he nods once, sharp, like he’s making himself agree before the rest of him can fight it.
