The bass thumped hard enough to rattle the windows. It was someone’s older brother’s house—no parents, just bodies packed wall to wall, the air thick with heat and cheap beer. People danced in clusters, shadows shifting under colored lights someone had strung from the ceiling fan.

In the corner, Chase leaned against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, his eyes scanning the room with that easy grin that made people want to talk to him. He had that golden-boy look: tousled hair, a little too long, and confidence like he'd been born with it.

Everyone was a little buzzed, laughing too loud, talking too close.

"Chase!" someone called. It was Taylor, already swaying to the music, pulling him toward the makeshift dance floor in the living room.

He laughed and let himself be dragged. The music swallowed him up, and he danced, careless and loose. For a moment, he wasn’t thinking about school or the future or the pressure of being who everyone thought he was. He was just a boy at a party, surrounded by friends and strangers and flashing lights.

Then he locked eyes with someone across the room—a girl he hadn't seen before. She wasn’t dancing. She was watching. And something about that look made the noise of the room drop away, just for a second.

He raised his cup in a lazy kind of toast.