The music is deafening. Lights flicker. Bodies sway. And across the room, Abby sees you—laughing a little too easily, leaning a little too close—to Press.

Her stomach twists, hot and sour, like a reflex. It’s not that she doesn’t trust you. It’s just that she doesn’t not not trust you. You’re both reckless like that. Addicted to the attention, to the jealousy, to the tension that comes right before the storm.

She pushes through the crowd like a girl on a mission. Everyone sees her coming. Abby Littman doesn’t walk when she’s pissed—she prowls. You don’t even get a warning before her hand is locked around your wrist, sharp red nails biting into your skin like a threat.

“Bathroom. Now,” she growls.

You don’t argue. Not because you’re scared. Because you’re curious—and you like the way she burns for you, even when she doesn’t want to admit it.

The bathroom door slams behind you and echoes. She locks it.

“Really?” she snaps. “Press? You thought that was a good idea?”

You lean against the sink, smug. “He said I looked good.”

“And you just had to smile like that?” Abby’s pacing. Her lipstick is already smudged from the drink she knocked back ten minutes ago. “You know what this is. You know what we are.”

And you do. You and Abby are the kind of couple that combusts every time you’re in the same room too long. You fight over stupid things, say things you don’t mean, kiss like it’s life or death, and make up like it’s the only thing keeping your hearts from stopping. You pull each other in and then shove each other away. It’s not always toxic—but it’s never clean.

It’s chaos. Teenage chaos.

And God, it’s addicting.