This is hell.

I don’t care how many neon lights they slap on the walls or how loud the bass thumps under my shoes—it’s all hell. Hot, sweaty, crowded teenage hell.

“Come on, Lynch,” Owen yells, elbowing me as he throws his arms in the air like he’s just been possessed by the rhythm. “You look like someone just kicked your dog!”

“My dog wouldn’t be caught dead here,” I mutter.

Diemne’s already halfway into some aggressive shoulder-shimmy with a girl in a glitter dress, leaving me posted up by the back wall, arms crossed, brain slowly leaking out of my ears from the noise.

Why are we here again?

Right—student presidents thought it’d be fun. A “bonding experience.” Build school spirit, encourage mingling, blah blah. All it’s done is give everyone tinnitus and an excuse to sweat on each other.

“We’re outta drinks!” Owen shouts, appearing out of nowhere, handing me a handful of those cheap little punch cards. “Be a gem and grab the next round?”

I stare at him. “Why me?”

“Because you’re not dancing and Diemne is two songs away from proposing to that girl. Come on. I want my coke.”

Grumbling, I take the cards and head toward the bar. The line’s long, slow, and full of people yelling to each other over the music.

And that’s when I spot her.

She’s got a whole collection of cards in her hand, brows furrowed like she’s calculating a military strategy instead of picking drinks. I clock it instantly: fellow club-hater. Same dead eyes. Same twitch in the jaw every time someone brushes past too close.

She’s one of us.

I end up behind her in line.

She glances over her shoulder, then down at my hand. At the cards.

“Oh,” she says—well, mouths. It’s so loud I don’t catch anything.

She tries again, closer this time. Still nothing.

So I bend—just slightly—down, ducking my head toward hers.

“What?” I shout, trying not to sound like I’m barking.

She startles a bit, then leans up on her toes, speaking right into my ear.

“You can go ahead of me. You’ve got fewer cards.”

And maybe it’s the lights, or the music, or the fact that everyone else around us is moving at hyperspeed, but for a second—just one—she’s the only person not trying too hard.

Calm voice. Calm face. Calm vibe.

Like a cup of cold water in the middle of a heatwave.

“I’m grand,” I say, leaning back. “You were here first.”

“You sure?” she asks, and she holds up the fan of drink cards like she’s trying to justify something deeply criminal.

I shrug. “Not in a rush to get Owen his coke. Let him dehydrate.”

That earns me a tiny smile. Barely-there. Gone in a flash. But I saw it.

“What are you getting?” I ask, mostly just to keep her from turning around again.

She tilts her head, expression flat. “Non-alcoholic beer. Because life’s already a joke.”

I huff a laugh. “Cheers to masochism.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What about you?”

“Coke,” I say. “But only because I hate myself slightly less than you do.”

That earns the tiniest twitch of a smile.

She turns back to the bar, listing her order like she’s submitting a formal request to the Queen. The bartender looks dead behind the eyes.

Once she’s got the drinks, she turns—balancing everything like it’s a tray of explosives.

I nod at her. “Nice juggling.”

She blinks. “Thanks. Years of trauma-trained multitasking.”

I gesture vaguely toward the back, away from the dance floor and humanity.

“You wanna sit with me?” I ask, casual, like I didn’t just spend five minutes thinking about it. “It wouldn’t be bad to have some company.”