And fuck, it nearly undoes me.
The noise of the party swells, but it’s muffled here, our corner carved out by the wall at our backs and the sheer fact that no one is paying attention. My fingers itch around the neck of my bottle, too tight, too aware of the space—or lack of space—between us.
He shifts, just a little, like he’s giving himself more room, but in doing so, his shoulder brushes mine. It’s barely a touch, but it hits like a live wire. My breath sticks in my throat.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though we both know he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“Don’t be,” I say, low, careful.
Our shoulders stay aligned, close enough that I can feel the heat bleeding through the fabric of his shirt. If I leaned the slightest bit more, we’d look like we were shoulder to shoulder on purpose. Like it meant something.
I tip my beer toward him, trying for easy. “I’ll play you the tracks tomorrow if you’re around. I’ll make sure the guys are out, so there are no distractions.” I’ll bribe them if I have to.
His eyes cut to mine, and for half a second, he doesn’t move. Then his fingers tighten around his bottle, his knuckles whitening, and he nods once more. And fuck, I hope he understood all the words unsaid with that invite.
The air feels sharp between us, thick with everything neither of us is stupid enough to say here. His jaw flexes, his mouth opening like he wants to speak, then snapping shut again.
Another crash of laughter explodes from the kitchen, covering the way his arm shifts—just a fraction, enough that the back of his hand grazes mine where it hangs at my side. A brush, no more than an accident, but I feel it everywhere, all the way down to my bones.
I don’t move away. Neither does he.
From the outside, it’s nothing. Two guys leaning against a wall, drinking beer, waiting out the noise. But inside, where it counts, it’s a fuse burning slow and merciless.
Eventually the door bangs open, the cold rush of bodies flooding past, and the spell cracks just enough for us to fall back into the current. He peels away toward his teammates, I get snagged by Drew dragging me toward the kitchen, and the night keeps moving whether I’m ready or not.
The hours blur, loud and messy. Drew somehow starts a dance circle in the living room, shirt already off, a lampshade balanced on his head. Eli dominates beer pong, crowing until he loses, then sulking with a fistful of chips. Miles finds a corner with another soda and starts talking sound engineering with some random film major who looks just as miserable to be here.
Me? I orbit Ollie. Not obvious. Not clingy. But every chance I get, I find him. A joke, a brush of shoulders, a look that lingers too long.
Right before midnight, the countdown shakes the walls.Ten, nine, eight—cups raised, voices hoarse, fireworks cracking outside. Someone’s standing on the counter, beer fizz raining down; someone else has already lost their shirt.
Seven, six, five—bodies sway, press close, the air thick with heat and bass.
Four, three, two—people scream, mouths already crashing together.
One.
The room erupts. Kisses and shouts, sloppy hugs, drinks sloshing over sticky floors.
I don’t kiss him. Not here, not yet. But across the room, through the chaos and the noise, his eyes meet mine. It’s not a glance—it’s a tether, sharp and unyielding. His teammates are jostling him, dragging him into their celebration, and still his gaze doesn’t waver.
Red blooms high and hot against his skin. His chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s been running. And for one reckless, impossible second, it feels like the whole damn year is waiting for us to step forward, to close the distance.
The reasons crowd in, sharp as broken glass. All the tidy speeches about teammates watching, about a friendship that I know is bullshit and will never be enough, about not torching something fragile before it even starts. But one look at him—cheeks flushed, eyes locked on me like the countdown is only ours—and the reasons don’t stand a chance. They never do when it’s him.
Someone grabs me, yelling, “Happy New Year!” in my ear, but it barely registers. The only thing I hear is the pounding behind my ribs. The only thing I see is him, steady in the middle of the blur, like maybe he’s fighting the same pull I am.
God, I want to kiss him. Desperation burns through me, mirrored in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his mouth parts like he might actually break and cross the room. But then one of his guys slaps his back, dragging him down into the crush, and the thread between us snaps.
I can’t breathe in here. Porch creaking, cigarette flaring, I step outside. The night’s cool, sharp, a relief after the heat inside.
The door opens behind me barely ten seconds later. Ollie steps out. The porch light cuts across his face, turning the lines of his frown sharper when he notices the cigarette between my fingers.
“Not part of your New Year’s resolution?” he asks. His tone’s dry, but his eyes linger, disapproving.
“Maybe,” I reply, and without thinking twice, I stub it out on the railing. The ember dies with a hiss. I tell myself it’s because smoke ruins my throat, because the filter tastes like ash anyway, but the truth is simpler: He frowned, and I moved. I don’t do that for anyone. Not professors, not my parents, not even the guys I’ve played with for three years. But for him? My hand’s already acting before my brain catches up.
He leans beside me, arms folded, posture rigid. The silence between us is as thick as the smoke I just killed, except this time it’s him filling my lungs, not nicotine.
