The bass rattled the floor, someone was howling (literally), and Flynn had just started juggling shot glasses again. Ithan stood in the kitchen doorway, a beer in one hand, a quiet look of deep regret in the other.

“This is your fault,” he muttered to Ruhn, who strolled past him shirtless and smug.

“My fault for what?” Ruhn grinned. “Providing culture?”

“This isn’t culture. This is noise pollution with alcohol.”

Declan threw an arm around Ithan’s shoulders from behind. “You say that, but I saw you nod your head to the music earlier. Don't lie.”

“I was not nodding,” Ithan replied, deadpan. “I was contemplating escape.”

“Mm-hm. Sure.”

He stayed anyway. Leaned against the counter. Watched the way Bryce laughed like nothing could touch her. Watched the way Flynn slipped a drink into someone’s hand with a wink. He watched the way everyone had a place here, even him, even if he still didn’t quite believe it.

And when someone from the crowd wandered too close, tried to size him up like a challenge, Ithan just smiled, slow, wolfish, and quiet.

“Not tonight,” he said simply, before turning back to the fridge and pulling out a drink someone had stashed for him. Tonight? He was just a guy in a house full of mismatched friends, a drink in one hand and a warm buzz of belonging starting to settle under his skin.

He was mid-sip when the front door creaked open again, letting in a breeze that cut through the press of warmth and noise.

He wouldn’t have noticed her at first, except the sound changed. Not much, not loud. Just a momentary lull, like the house took a breath and held it.

She stepped inside with the casual hesitation of someone who didn’t crash parties often. Black boots, denim jacket, long sleeves despite the heat. Hair pulled back, face unreadable, eyes scanning like she was already planning her exit. Ithan didn’t know her name, but he’d seen her before, once, maybe twice. Always on the edges. Always quiet.

She saw him before he could look away.

Their eyes locked for just a second, enough to recognize, not enough to define.

Then she gave a nod. Barely more than a blink. But it was deliberate. Chosen.

He cleared his throat and looked away. Drink still in hand. Damn it.

Declan leaned in from the hallway. “You good, bro?”

“Fine,” Ithan said, though his tone came out lower than he meant. “Who invited her?”

“Flynn,” Declan grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Exactly. That’s why we do it for you.”

He was about to roll his eyes when she entered the kitchen, not directly toward him, not dramatic. Just... nearby. Pretending to check the drink table. Like maybe she needed a minute too.

Ithan watched her fingers trail across a forgotten solo cup. He could smell her, not perfume, not anything strong. Just clean skin, city air, a hint of ink and something like pine. Something real.

“You’re not a party person either,” he said finally, voice quieter than the music, but clear.

She glanced up. “Was it the standing in the kitchen alone vibe that gave me away?”

His lips twitched. Not a smile, not fully. But closer than he’d been all night.

“Same here,” he said. “The kitchen’s neutral ground.”

“Then I’ll stay,” she said. “For a little while.”

And just like that, nothing huge, no fireworks, no sparks flying, something shifted. Like a quiet tug in his chest. Like a part of him, usually on high alert, had decided to sit down for a second.