The bass thumped through the house, lights flashing, laughter and shouting mixing with the smell of cheap liquor. You were drunk on… well, whatever you could find, really. Stumbling through the crowded living room, you spotted an empty couch — salvation.

Except it wasn’t empty.

You nearly collapsed before stopping short, swaying slightly.

He was there.

A man — definitely older than you, but not by much — maybe late twenties, early thirties. Black shirt stretched over his broad chest, one arm behind his head, the other resting casually on his stomach. His belt was tight, pants fitted, boots planted firmly like he wasn’t going anywhere.

He didn’t look passed out. No, he was very much awake, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

You laughed, tipsy and brave. “What are you, like… military?”

His brown eyes slid over to you, slow and deliberate.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” His voice was calm but carried weight, the kind that made your laughter falter.

He sat up slightly, his gaze flicking to your shirt — the one with "I love Biceps" printed across the chest. He rolled his eyes, taking a swig of his beer.

“Listen,” he said, tone cool, “whatever you came here to get, you won’t. I’m here for observation.”

You blinked at him, confused and still trying to keep your balance.

“Observation?”

“To keep my kid from doing anything stupid at this party.”

Your drunk brain took a second to process.

Holy shit.

He was the dad of whoever threw this party.

And he was way too hot for that to be legal.