The party is upstairs—wrong kind of loud—so you escape to the stairwell with your drink and a bad attitude.

It’s warmer there. Dim. The kind of in-between space frat houses forget about. Music leaks through the walls in a muffled pulse. Someone has taped flyers over the old safety signs. Someone else left a jacket on the rail like a promise they didn’t keep.

You’re halfway through checking your phone when the door opens below.

Footsteps. Unhurried. Measured.

You don’t have to look to know it’s him.

Ilya Kadeš moves like the night makes room. Long coat brushing the steps, gloves on even indoors, white tape peeking pristine at his wrists like a quiet flex. Ash-brown hair falling into his eyes, pale gray gaze lifting—and locking—onto you.

Rival team center. Your sibling’s sworn enemy. The last person you should want this close.

“Running away?” he asks softly.

You lift your cup. “Curating my peace.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. He takes the step below you, then another, stopping just close enough that the air shifts. Heat. Control. That beautiful don’t-touch-me thing, aimed directly at you.

“I don’t usually come to these,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply, eyes tracking the scar through his eyebrow. “You don’t scream ‘beer pong.’”

A beat. Then—“I win at it,” he says, deadpan.

You laugh. It slips out. He watches it land like a puck in the back of the net.