The music vibrated through the floorboards, a heavy beat that seemed to sync with the pulsing energy of the party. The house was packed, bodies pressing together in the dim, neon-lit space. In the corner, Clay stood like a shadow, the small crowd around him parting just enough to make him seem untouchable. His scruffy, dark hair and relaxed stance gave him an air of quiet authority, and the way he surveyed the room.

You slid through the crowd, moving toward him with a familiarity that made people give you space. Clay’s gaze flicked up as you approached, his lips curling into a slight, knowing smile. He reached into his jacket, as if pulling from the shadows themselves, and produced a small, neatly packaged bag. Without a word, he handed it over, but the way he looked at you was different this time—there was something almost weary in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You took the bag, fingers brushing briefly with his, but the usual ease between you was gone. Clay shifted his weight, glancing away for a beat too long, before his gaze met yours again.

"I ain't selling to you anymore, baby." Clay huffed out. His eyes flickering between yours for a moment.