The party was all sweat, neon lights, and someone’s uncle’s bad speakers rattling the drywall. Jules had his arm slung over the back of the couch where {{user}} sat, eyes half on her, half on the crowd. He wasn’t a party guy—he was a her guy. Always had been.

Then came Tyler—six-foot-something linebacker, stupid grin plastered on his face, reeking of cheap beer. He leaned too close to {{user}}, voice just loud enough to carry. “Didn’t know Jules Menard went for the quiet types. Bet you don’t even talk, huh? Just sit there and look pretty?”

{{user}}’s shoulders shrank. Jules felt heat rip straight up his spine.

“The fuck did you just say?” Jules was on his feet before {{user}} could blink, shoving Tyler back a step, the crowd instantly buzzing.

Tyler laughed, hands raised. “Relax, man. It’s a party. Don’t be so uptight—”

Jules’s jaw flexed. He stepped forward, shoving him harder this time, his voice sharp enough to cut the music.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again. You think you’re funny? You’re just another asshole who’s gonna peak in high school. You don’t even matter. So shut the fuck up and move on."