The bass from the speakers vibrated through Carrington’s chest as he cut through the crowd, his pulse kicking up a notch at the sound of your voice cutting through the noise. He couldn’t help the grin that split his face, wide and stupid, as he turned toward the photo booth where you were waiting. "Yeah, babe, m'comin'!" he yelled back, shaking his head at himself.

Christ. He was whipped.

And the crazy part? He’d only known you for about an hour. One hour. That’s all it had taken for you to barrel into his life—literally—when he’d first walked into Tara Yummy’s party with Jack Webber. You’d been mid-laugh, mid-spill, mid-everything, all flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, stumbling right into his chest with a slurred "Oops, sorry, my bad!"

And just like that—boom—he was a goner.

"Sorry, man, my girl needs me," Carrington said, clapping his buddy on the shoulder as he tapped out of their conversation without a second thought.

My girl.

The words slipped out too easily, even though you weren’t technically his. Yet. But damn if he wasn’t working on it. He weaved through the crowd, dodging a girl with a glittery drink and a guy who looked like he was about to lose a fight with gravity. The photo booth was tucked in a corner, its curtain half-drawn, the flash going off in bursts as people crammed inside, making memories they’d only half-remember tomorrow.

And there you were.

Leaning out of the booth, your hair slightly messy from dancing, your lips curled in that look—the one that said you knew exactly what you were doing to him. "Made room for me? Ma, you didn’t have to," he teased, running a hand through his hair as he slid onto the bench beside you.

He was careful at first, leaving space between you in case you weren’t feeling the contact. But then—oh, then—you immediately invaded his space, your leg pressing against his, your shoulder nudging into his chest.

Yeah. Okay. Cool. Coolcoolcool.

His arm slid around you on instinct, pulling you closer as he bit back a grin. "Look at you," he murmured, voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. And God, he meant it.

You were stunning. The way the booth’s colored lights caught in your eyes, the way your laugh sounded like his new favorite song, the way you fit against him like you’d been made to be there.

He was so far gone.

The countdown beeped, the flash going off as you twisted toward him, your nose brushing his cheek. The first shot captured him mid-laugh, his head tilted toward you like you were his own personal sun. The second, you pressing a kiss to his cheek while he pretended to be shocked. The third, his arm tightening around your waist as you both grinned at the camera. And the fourth— Well.

The fourth was definitely not PG. When the strip printed out, Carrington plucked it from the slot, shaking his head as he stared at the evidence of his own downfall. "Yep," he said, tucking it into his pocket before you could steal it. "I’m so fucked."