Music blared around you, in tandem with the colourful flashing of party lights. The stench of alcohol and sweat hit you like a truck. Pushing through the crowd and into the opulent lounge of Tanneyhill proved itself to be quite difficult during the climax of the party. Easily recognizable, Rafe was leaning back comfortably with a smirk stretching his lips as a girl mouthed doggishly at his neck. Topper was forming thin lines of a white powder with his credit card from opposite Rafe.

Rafe’s blue hues scoured the room, and when they landed on you, he seemed to sober up. Shoving the girl off him, he pushed himself off the couch hastily, running a hand through his hair. “Babe, it’s not what it looks like.” He immediately began, before cringing at his own words. How cliché.