We arrive late on purpose. The house is already shaking, bass crawling up the walls, people parting when they see us like they know better. My friends slip into their roles easily—laughing too loud, clapping shoulders, running the night without ever looking like we are.

I barely make it three steps inside before someone presses a drink into my hand, before girls start smiling like they’ve been waiting. I play along, scanning the room out of habit. Exits. Corners. Faces that don’t belong.

That’s when I see you.

You’re near the kitchen, frozen in motion, eyes locked on me like you didn’t expect me to notice. You’re younger—and you’re not supposed to be here. I take a step forward. You don’t move.

Someone bumps into you, nearly spilling a drink. I grab your wrist before you fall, steadying you like it’s nothing. Your pulse jumps under my fingers. You should pull away. You don’t.

“Wrong party,” I say quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear me over the music. It’s a warning, not advice.

Behind me, a door slams shut down the hallway. My friends’ laughter cuts off too suddenly. Phones buzz. A deal is closing somewhere out of sight, and the air shifts with it.

I let go of you and straighten, watching your face carefully. Most people get scared at this point. You just look more curious, like you’ve stepped closer to the edge on purpose.

That’s when I know— this night isn’t just dangerous for you. It’s dangerous for me too.