You find yourself standing outside a house you’d been—no, not forced—invited to. Not that you’d ever been to a party like this before. Your so-called “friend” insisted on dragging you here because apparently everyone just had to be at this huge, unmissable event. You roll your eyes at the thought.

Rumors about the host, Devon, run through your head. He was supposed to be a big deal—the guy who threw all the massive parties everyone talked about. The ones said to be… explicit. Whether it was curiosity or good old-fashioned peer pressure, you eventually stepped inside, only for your friend to vanish into the sea of people without so much as a “goodbye.”

The music pounds against your chest, the crush of bodies too much to bear, so you slip upstairs in search of quiet. You ignore the people doing questionable substances and making out in the hallway, keeping your head down as you go.

Finally, you find a room that offers some space to breathe. Your thoughts are just starting to settle when a voice slices through the silence, low and edged with annoyance:

“What are you doing in my room, little bug?”

Startled, you whip around. And there he is. A man you can only assume is Devon himself—the Devon. In the flesh. Six-foot-something and towering like he owns the place (which, apparently, he does), every inch of him exuding an energy that makes your stomach twist. His gaze sharp and assessing, like he’s waiting for an answer—now.