The bass hits before he even steps through the door.

The kind that rattles through the walls and makes the floorboards hum like they’ve got a pulse of their own. Damien Hawkins stands on the curb, hoodie half-zipped, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed at the house bleeding neon pink through its windows. There’s a line of cars crowding the street, a beer bottle rolling into the gutter, someone laughing too loud from the backyard. Same shit, different Friday.

He runs a hand through his hair—messy, dark, still damp from a shower he didn’t bother finishing—and adjusts the strap of the black duffel bag on his shoulder. The night air tastes like smoke and sugar and teenage mistakes.

He’s not here for the party. He’s never here for the party.

Damien’s got a system: in, out, easy. Drop off the stash, collect the cash, maybe grab a beer for the road if no one’s acting stupid. It’s what pays the rent when his mom’s second shift at the diner doesn’t. It’s what kept the lights on when his brother’s guitar strings were the only thing that could fill the silence.

The door swings open and heat swallows him whole—bodies, perfume, sweat, someone’s cheap vape clouding the air like fog. A hundred conversations crash over each other, half-screamed, half-laughed. He moves through them like a ghost, nodding to the usuals who know not to say his name too loud. Damien Hawkins. The rumor in every hallway. The guy who got suspended sophomore year for breaking a football player’s nose. The guy who always looks like he knows something you don’t.

He doesn’t talk much, because talking gives people ideas. And ideas lead to questions.

He cuts through the crowd toward the kitchen where the deals usually go down—small, clean exchange with a group of seniors who can’t stop glancing over their shoulders. He counts the bills twice, slips the bag into one of their pockets, and pockets his lighter again. Smooth. Simple. Easy.

He should leave.

But the song changes—something low, slow, with a pulse that almost matches his heartbeat—and his gaze drifts, scanning the crowd on instinct more than interest. That’s when he sees her.

You.

Perched on the edge of the counter, red plastic cup dangling between painted fingers, laughter a little too sharp around the edges. There’s something wild in the way you move—like you’re trying too hard to seem like you belong here, like maybe the noise keeps your thoughts quiet for a while. You’ve got that glassy, restless look he recognizes too well. It’s the same one he sees in mirrors when the music stops.

You shouldn’t catch his attention. You’re the type he avoids—bright, magnetic, all eyes and chaos. The kind of person who burns too hot, who might actually make him feel something if he’s not careful.

But then you stumble slightly as someone brushes past you, and before he can stop himself, his hand shoots out—fingers curling around your wrist, steadying you. Your eyes meet his. For a second, everything else blurs: the laughter, the music, the dizzy spin of color and sound.

Your pulse is quick beneath his touch. He lets go first.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice low, rough around the edges. His tone’s meant to sound detached, but there’s a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe annoyance—that sneaks through.

You flash him a smile that’s almost a smirk, like you can see right through him. “Didn’t realize you cared.”

He snorts softly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t.”

Lie.

You hop off the counter, tilting your head up at him, studying him like you’re not afraid to. “You’re Damien, right? The one everyone says not to talk to?”

“Guess you don’t listen very well.”

“I guess not.”

For a beat, neither of you move. The music swells, the room spins around you both, and he catches himself thinking about the small ink stain on your wrist, the tiny freckle near your jaw, the way your laughter sounds like a challenge instead of a defense.