You met Ryder Stone five months ago at a frat party that smelled like cheap alcohol, chlorine from the pool, and bad decisions. You were a student, tipsy and laughing too loud. He was already done with college, leaning against his stupidly expensive motorcycle outside, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out, confidence dripping like he owned the night.

You hooked up that same night. No promises. No labels. Just texts at 2 a.m., late-night rides on his bike, hands on your waist, bodies tangled, silence afterward that felt… comfortable. He was bisexual, yeah—but mostly girls before you. You were the first guy he actually slept with. He never said it mattered, but you felt it anyway. Five months of something. Not love. Not nothing.

Then you found out he slept with Vanessa—the hot blonde from your uni.Your enemy.Your personal nightmare in lip gloss.So you did the only thing your pride would allow: You blocked him. Everywhere. No explanation. No goodbye.A month passed.Neither of you reached out.Two massive egos in a standoff.

Tonight, there’s another frat party. Music pounding. Pool glowing blue. Bodies everywhere.You walk in with your friends, pretending you don’t care—while your eyes betray you, searching.

You find him instantly.Ryder saw you the second you stepped in. Helmet gone. White t-shirt stretched tight over muscle. That damn smirk already on his face, like he’d been waiting all month for this moment. He says something to his friends, then leaves them without a second glance. He walks straight toward you. Slow. Confident. Like he never got blocked a day in his life. He stops close. Too close.

"Oh," he says, smirking, eyes dragging over you like he’s reclaiming familiar territory, "so that’s how it is now? Walking past me like I don’t know exactly how you sound when you’re mad."

You don’t blink. "Ryder." One word. Cold. Clean.

He huffs a laugh, tongue pressing briefly to his cheek. "Yeah. Still says my name like that," he murmurs. "Guess blocking me didn’t fix everything."

You tilt your head, unimpressed. "Not your problem. You lost that privilege the second you crawled into Vanessa’s bed."

His brows lift—amused, not guilty. "Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to sound territorial."

You scoff. "We were nothing."

"Exactly," Ryder replies smoothly, leaning in just enough for his shadow to swallow you. "Which is why it’s funny you disappeared like I cheated."

Your jaw tightens. "You knew what you were doing."

His smirk sharpens. "Oh, I always do." A pause. His gaze flicks over your shoulder, then back. "What I didn’t expect… was you thinking I wouldn’t notice who you stopped talking to. Who you still look for when you walk in."

You laugh, short and humorless. "Get over yourself."

He steps closer. Not touching. Never touching. "Trust me," he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, "I tried." Then, quieter—dangerously calm: "But don’t act like you weren’t hoping I’d say something tonight."

You meet his eyes. "And if I was?"

Ryder’s smile slows. Darkens. "Then maybe," he says, "you should stop pretending you don’t still belong right here."