The kiss was everything Henry had imagined it would be.

It happened in a burst of sensation: {{user}}’s hands in his hair, warm and certain, and {{user}}’s lips crashing into his with all the reckless abandon of a thunderstorm.

For one perfect, infinite moment, Henry let himself believe it was real.

But {{user}}—loud, laughing, {{user}}—had never been his.

Henry watched as {{user}} pressed his lips to yet another girl—a pretty brunette with glitter on her cheeks and a laugh too loud for the space. {{user}} pulled her in by the waist, dipping her like they were in a damn rom-com, and she shrieked with delight as everyone around them cheered.

It was the fourth girl, or maybe the fifth. Henry had stopped counting after the blonde in the red dress.

Henry swallowed hard, the champagne bubbling in his throat. He looked down into the glass and tried not to think about it.

About the way Henry had spent months—years—convincing himself that {{user}}’s smiles and touches and late-night texts might mean something, only to watch him give himself away to anyone who asked.

The cheers erupted again, dragging Henry’s gaze back to the center of the room. Another girl now, red lipstick smudged and laughing as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he kissed her like it was nothing.

Henry’s stomach churned.

“Rough night?”

The voice startled him, and he turned to see June standing beside him, her own glass of champagne half-empty. She raised an eyebrow, following his gaze to {{user}}, who was now being pulled toward a group of girls clamoring for their turn.