The villa is packed. Music pulses through the walls, the bass rattling glasses left half-finished on marble counters. Neon lights flicker against sweaty skin, bodies tangled on the dancefloor. But Lewis’s not really here. Not fully. His hand grips a drink he’s barely touched, thumb scrolling his phone like it holds the answer to everything.

“I only threw this party for you...” — the lyrics bleed into the air, but they feel more like a whisper inside his head.

Every time the door clicks open, his head snaps toward it. Not them. Not them either. He’s scanning for one face. Yours. Checking the clock, refreshing your messages, pretending he’s not bothered when anyone asks if he’s okay. He smiles, jokes, leans back like he doesn’t care. But he does.

Because this — the lights, the noise, the crowd — none of it matters if you’re not here.

And then... you are. Late, intentional, electric. The second he catches sight of you slipping through the doorway — hair catching the glow, eyes scanning the room — he’s already moving. Drops the drink somewhere. Pushes past the crowd without looking back.

He’s not subtle. He never is with you. His hand finds yours before you can even say hi, and just like that, the whole party fades. It was never for them. It was always, only, for you.