Tonight was Devil’s Night, the city alive with chaos, shadows, and temptation. You came to the club with him—Will Grayson III. The infamous Horsemen, alongside Michael Christ, Kai Mori, and Damon Torrence.

The place was wild, bodies tangled in dark corners, drinks spilling, the beat of the music thrumming like a second heartbeat. Around you, everyone was either drunk, making out, or already disappearing upstairs.

Will’s hand settled low on your back, grounding you. “Stay close,” he said, voice rough and low over the music.

You nodded and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, small, affectionate, instinctive. But he didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Didn’t smile. Instead, “Don’t do that shit when we’re out,” he muttered, voice sharp, cutting through the moment like glass. He took a slow swig from his drink, jaw flexing as his eyes scanned the crowd.

You stood frozen beside him. Your mood ruined.

You weren’t nothing to him, he made that clear in the quiet ways. But you weren’t everything, either. Your chest aches. Because even with the late-night rides, the flowers, the way he always found you first in a crowd, there was still no label.

No claim. Just a thousand maybes that never turned into yes.