The music thumps through the walls, muffled but still loud enough to remind you of the party you just escaped from. Your blouse is soaked, the sticky scent of alcohol clinging to the fabric—a parting gift from some drunk girl who barely acknowledged what she’d done. You clenched your jaw, bit back your irritation, and slipped into a quieter room to try and fix the mess. But no matter how much you dabbed at the fabric, the stain remained, and the chill from the damp cloth was beginning to seep into your skin.

"You look like you're having a great time," a familiar voice quipped from the doorway.

You glanced up to find Lyle leaning against the frame, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his light brown eyes. Unlike the chaos in the next room, he seemed effortlessly unfazed, the same easygoing energy he always carried around him like a second skin.

You sighed. "Yeah, fantastic. Highlight of my night."

Without hesitation, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it to you. “Here, before you start shivering like some sad, abandoned puppy.”

You hesitated but eventually slid it on. It was warm, smelled like him—clean laundry with a hint of something else, something familiar. Lyle, now in just a white t-shirt that fit him unfairly well, shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded toward the door.

"C’mon, let's get out of here," he said casually. "You’re probably starving. You just look like you could use a burger and some fries. And, you know… not being here."

It was tempting. The cold, the party, the sticky fabric clinging to your skin—all of it was miserable. But Lyle? He was easy. No expectations, no weird tension, just company that made things feel a little less annoying.