His date is probably in his late twenties, with a sharp jaw, dark hair. He leans in and says something that makes Miles laugh, bright and open. It makes my chest warm in a strange way. Not envy exactly, but something definitely like longing.
Drew is with a woman, Lily, who I know he’s been hanging out with for a couple of months. Her arm’s looped through his. She looks like she belongs in this world, confident and gorgeous, smiling widely as she shakes her head at Drew.
Everyone looks… happy.
Uncomplicated.
For a moment, I just watch, letting the noise wash over me. The scent of perfume and sweat and expensive candles. The flicker of soft lighting against high ceilings. The thump of bass through the floor.
This is what success looks like. This is what it costs. And somehow, tonight, it feels worth it.
Rafe reappears with two drinks in his hands, one of them bright green and borderline radioactive.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
He grins. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You trust me with your life,” he says, handing it over.
“That’s different.”
“Not really.”
I take a cautious sip and immediately cough. “Jesus.”
Rafe laughs. “Right? Isn’t it great?”
“It tastes like sugar and regret.”
He takes his own sip—then another, like he’s trying to keep the night bright. “Exactly,” he says, pleased. “Now drink it.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me,” he sings, then stands on his tiptoes, leans in, and kisses the corner of my mouth like he can’t help himself, then is immediately called away by Eli.
It’s brief enough that no one notices, but it sends a quiet jolt through me anyway.
Marco raises his eyebrows across the room at me like he caught something, but then he turns away, distracted by Eli shouting something obscene at the DJ.
A few feet away, Rafe is pulled into a conversation with Dan and Jody, and I watch him slip into it effortlessly, laughing, charming, listening like he genuinely cares.
He does care. That’s the thing. He didn’t throw this party for attention. He threw it because he wanted me surrounded. Because he wanted me to feel held by a community that doesn’t always exist in my world.
The DJ shifts into a song that makes the dance floor explode. Someone grabs my hand—Eli—and yanks me toward the crowd of bodies.
“Oh no,” I protest.
“Oh yes,” he shouts. “Birthday boy must dance!”
“I don’t dance.”
“You play basketball for a living,” he scoffs. “Your whole job is rhythm.”
“That’s not the same thing!”
Eli ignores me and drags me into the middle of the floor anyway.
