The party was already feral when he showed up.

Basement lights flickering like they were about to die, bass shaking the floor, bodies packed tight, air thick with sweat, cheap cologne, and weed smoke. Someone was yelling about beer pong upstairs. Someone else was throwing up in a sink. Standard Friday.

{{user}} Westbrook was on Deacon’s lap like she owned the place. Which—yeah. She did.

Queen bitch of campus. Sharp mouth, sharper eyeliner, legs crossed slow and deliberate like she knew every guy in the room was staring. Her nails rested on his shoulder, possessive, lazy. He had one arm around her waist, the other holding a joint between two fingers, smoke curling up past his face.

God, he loved this part. Loved how pissed people got just looking at them.

He leaned back into the couch, dragged in smoke, blew it out over her shoulder. She tilted her head back slightly, smirked up at him like, you good? He was. Always was when she was like this—comfortable, dangerous, bored.

Then the boys started yelling his name.

“Yo—come here, man.”

He sighed internally. Duty called. Frat politics or some dumb shit.

He tapped her thigh twice. “Gonna talk to them real quick,” he muttered, already shifting.

She shot him a look. Not angry. Just warning. Don’t do anything stupid.

He slid her off his lap gently, set her beside him, fingers lingering at her waist for half a second longer than necessary. Power move. Reassurance. He stood, adjusted his shirt, joint still between his fingers, and headed toward the kitchen where the boys were clustered.

That’s when it happened.

He felt it before he saw it—fingers curling around his bicep like they had a right to be there.

“Hey,” a voice said, too sweet, too familiar.

He clenched his jaw.

His ex, Monica, the girl he broke off with because of her lack of excitement and personality.

Attached to him like a goddamn accessory, fake smile plastered on her face, nails digging just enough to be annoying. She leaned into him, chest brushing his arm, eyes already flicking past him—straight to her on the couch.

Yeah. {{user}} saw her.

Monica laughed lightly, loud enough for people around them to hear. “Didn’t know you were bringing her to parties now.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared forward, already annoyed.

She kept going, because of course she did.

“You know,” she said, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret, “you still love me. You’re just with her because you’re bored.”

Bullshit. Absolute, delusional bullshit.

He finally looked down at her, eyebrow raised. “You done?”

Her grip tightened instead. “I’m just saying the truth.”

He could feel it—the shift. Across the room.

He glanced back.

She was watching. Calm on the surface, legs crossed, drink in hand—but her eyes were dark, sharp, calculating. The kind of look that made grown men nervous. The kind of look that said someone’s about to get verbally murdered.

And fuck, if that didn’t do something to him.

He sighed, flicked ash into a cup, then peeled Monica’s hand off his arm like it was nothing. No drama. No softness.

“Listen,” he said flatly, leaning in just enough that only she could hear, “you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Her smile faltered.

“I don’t love you. I never went back. And I’m definitely not bored,” he added, eyes sliding back to his girlfriend on the couch. “So unclamp yourself from me before she decides to end you socially.”

Monica went stiff.

Behind him, he heard laughter. He didn’t even turn around. He already knew—his woman was smiling now. Slow. Dangerous. Satisfied.

Yeah.

That was his girl.