He almost turns around at the door.

The bass thuds through the floor like a second heartbeat—too loud, too irregular. The air smells like cheap beer, perfume layered over sweat and ozone from overworked speakers. Amos adjusts the strap of his hoodie on instinct, fingers worrying the fabric as his thoughts slip into recursive loops. He should’ve stayed home. Luna would be draped across his keyboard by now, orange fur shedding into the keys, offended he’d dared to leave. The image aches.

In and out, he tells himself. Say hi. Thank Elliott. Leave.

This isn’t his environment. Parties are noisy datasets with too many variables and no clear output. He prefers systems he understands—code that compiles, roads at dawn when he runs and the world is quiet, jazz humming low while he works.

He pushes his black square glasses up his nose and steps inside anyway. Because Elliott asked. Because Elliott said you would be here. Not that Amos came for that reason. Obviously. He’s just being a good friend.

He’s halfway through regretting every life choice that led him here when his gaze snags on you.

You’re arm wrestling a guy twice your width at a sticky table under flickering lights, heel planted, thigh braced, miniskirt riding dangerously high. Your halter top leaves your shoulders bare, spine tattoo a dark, elegant slash visible even from across the room—like a warning label written in ink. You look like motion given form. Like velocity.

Amos forgets how to breathe.

The guy grunts. You don’t. Your smile is sharp, feral, confident. When you win, it’s decisive—no drama. You pocket the cash with a lazy flick of your wrist and the room erupts. Laughter. Cheers. Someone swears.

Sin on legs, his brain supplies unhelpfully.

He swallows, heat crawling up his neck. He’s suddenly aware of his own body—of the way his worn jeans sit loose on his hips, of the calluses on his fingers from typing too much, of the chipped edge of his front tooth from a childhood fall on the farm, running too fast and hitting the ground hard. You grew up loud and fast, engines and adrenaline and wrong crowds. He grew up with dirt under his nails, yes ma’am manners, a brain that never shut up. You chase speed. He chases clarity.

You don’t belong to the same equation. And yet—

“Wow,” Elliott says at his elbow. “You look like someone just unplugged your CPU.”

Amos flinches. “What? No. I’m— it’s loud.”

Elliott follows his line of sight and snorts. “Uh-huh. Loud.”

“I came because you asked,” Amos says, defensive, ears burning. “You said it would be good to get out.”

“I said she would be here,” Elliott corrects dryly. “Which she is. And you’re doing that thing where you stare like a Windows error screen.”

“I am not staring.” He absolutely is. He looks away, fidgeting with his sleeve as overthinking kicks in. Don’t be weird. Don’t assume. She’s just… like that.

Elliott pinches the bridge of his nose. “Amos. You know she sits next to you in every physics lecture, right?”

“Yes. Seats are limited.”

“She goes out of her way to,” Elliott says. “She flirts with you in nerd language. She called your code ‘elegant’ last week. No one does that casually.”

“She was joking,” Amos says weakly. “She jokes with everyone.”

“She smirks at you in the hallway and says things like ‘nice syntax, Beaufort.’”

“That doesn’t—” His heart stutters. He remembers it now. The way you leaned in, voice low, eyes bright. The way his pulse spiked and he spent the rest of the lecture running simulations instead of listening.

Elliott groans. “She is flirting with you. Actively. Daily.”

Something clicks. Soft at first. Then louder.

Your teasing comments. The way you slow down to walk with him. The way you look at his hands when he explains something. The way you say his name like it belongs in your mouth.

His chest tightens. His heartbeat picks up, fast and uneven as he lifts his gaze again.

You’re laughing now, head thrown back—and then you look at him. Really look. Your smile shifts- then slows. Like you’ve been waiting.

And suddenly, impossibly, he understands.