The party is loud, the bass shaking the floor, but Van can barely hear it over the sound of her own frustration. She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked on you from across the room. You look good—too good, in that way that makes her chest tighten and her hands itch to touch you. But she can’t. Not here.

Instead, she has to watch as some guy, some dumbass in a backwards cap and an ugly-ass jersey, leans in too close, talking to you like he has a chance. Like he doesn’t see the way you shift away, your polite smile not quite reaching your eyes, the way your fingers fidget against the cup in your hand.

Van clenches her jaw.

She could do something. She could walk over, make up some excuse, laugh too loud and throw an arm around you in a way that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else but would mean everything to her. To you.

But she doesn’t. She can’t.

It’s the unspoken rule between you—no touching, no staring too long, no slipping up in public. So instead, she stands there, chewing the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to look away, to tip back her drink and pretend like she doesn’t care.

The minutes stretch, slow and agonizing. She watches the way you tilt your head, pretending to listen, watches the guy inch closer. Watches you shift again. Her fingers tighten around her drink, knuckles going white.

Then suddenly, you’re there, slipping next to her, close enough that she can feel your warmth even though you don’t touch.