Because he’s talking aboutherlike she’s a scoreboard.
“I’m not playing anything,” I say. Each word feels placed. Deliberate.
Reed studies me for a half second longer than necessary, then laughs it off. “Sure, man. Whatever you say.”He claps my shoulder too hard. “Drinks are in the kitchen. Girls are everywhere. Try to have some fun for once, yeah?”
He drifts off, already calling out to Jackson.
Dalton hands me a beer. “Ignore him. He’s been drinking since we got back.”
“Yeah.” I take the beer but don’t drink it.
My grip’s too tight.
A girl in a crop top appears at my elbow, smile wide, eyes bright. “You played so well tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to dance?”
I should say yes. Should fall back into the rhythm that always worked before—flirt, dance, see where it goes. Easy. Uncomplicated. Exactly what’s expected.
But when I look at her, all I can think is:She’s not Wren.
“Maybe later,” I say, and the disappointment flickers across her face before she recovers and moves on to Riley.
I need air.
I pushthrough to the living room, looking for a pocket of space that isn’t packed wall to wall.
Near the couch, Reed has a blonde girl half boxed in against the armrest. His forearm is braced behind her, casual enough to pass, close enough to crowd. She keeps angling her shoulders away, laughing when he says something in her ear, but it’s the kind of laugh that arrives a beat late.
He leans in again. Says something else.
She shakes her head, still smiling. Tries to step sideways.
Reed shifts with her, easy, practiced. Keeps talking.
She glances past him, scanning the room—not panicked. Just searching. Calculating.
I catch her eye and lift my cup, tipping it slightly toward the kitchen. “Water’s over there,” I say, like it’s nothing, loud enough to carry.
Her face changes instantly. Relief, quick and unguarded.
“Oh yeah. I’m actually really thirsty,” she says, already slipping out from under his arm. “Be right back.”
She’s gone before he can answer.
Reed watches her disappear, irritation flashing across his face. Then he looks at me.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
He studies me for a second, something sharp settling behind his eyes. A beat passes between us, loaded.
I shrug, easy. “It’s loud in here.”
But the tension sticks, threading itself through the room—thin, electric, waiting.
