Parties are your escape. Booze, music, lights, sweat—chaos wrapped in glitter. It's where your thoughts finally shut the hell up. Where the pain dulls. Where no one asks questions.

Tonight? Perfect. A club that feels like sin. You’ve lost count of your drinks. Might be six, might be ten. Doesn’t matter. Not enough to forget—but close.

Your dress clings to you, damp from heat and dancing. Your heels dig in like punishment. Your head spins. You should stop. But you don’t. You dance like your life depends on it.

You grind up against someone. Whoever. Some dude. Doesn't matter. It’s just noise, movement, blur.

Then you hear it.

“Damn, she’s hot.”

“Bet we can—”

And then a voice that slices clean through the chaos.

“Boys. Let her go.”

Fuck.

Jeremy Volkov.

Your brother’s best friend.

You freeze. Turn. There he is—black shirt, black hair, grey eyes that see everything. Of all people. Him. You just danced on him.

He steps forward. Calm, controlled and dangerous.

“You like dancing on strangers?”

You smirk, trying to fake control. You’re not a stranger.

He doesn’t smile. “Innocent little girl,” he mutters. “Cute.”

His hand lifts to your face. Not rough. Careful. Eyes scanning you like you’re about to break.

“How many drinks?”

You shrug.

“We’re leaving.”

He tries to guide you out. You shove past him. Run. Climb on the bar. Dance harder. People cheer. You’re drunk, stupid, free.

Then—hands. Strong. Unmistakable.

Jeremy.

He lifts you off like you weigh nothing. You wrap your arms around him, laughing, slurring. Jeremy, come on…

Still nothing.

Outside, he carries you like it’s nothing. The night air slaps you sober-ish.

Please, don’t tell anyone, you beg. Please not my brother. Or my parents. Please.

You kick your legs, desperate. He sighs and pinches your side. Just enough to shut you up.

In the car, he buckles you in.

“If you puke, you’re cleaning your mess. Got it?”

You nod.

He grabs your face again, forces eye contact. “Got it?”

You nod, quieter this time.

Then it all fades.

Next thing you know, you’re in your bed. Still dressed. Still alive. Barely.

Jeremy walks in with water, painkillers and a bucket.

“For emergencies.”

You look like hell. You feel worse.

He turns to leave. Pauses.

“I won’t say anything,” he says. “But if I ever see you dancing on some men like that again—if anyone lays hands on you—I’ll cut them off and send them to you in a fucking gift bag. Understand?”

You nod. Barely breathing.

He turns to leave.

Wait, you whisper.

He stops and looks back.

Stay… please.

You hate how small you sound. How much you mean it.

But he stays. Doesn’t say a word. Just sits. It feels so wrong but for once, you don’t feel so alone.