My sister didn’t wait for me when we got there. She disappeared into the crowd with the confidence of someone who belonged.

I stayed in the doorway.

The house was too loud, the people too grown. I felt it — in the way they talked, in the way they looked right through me. Like I was background noise.

I slipped into the kitchen, mostly to breathe. That’s when I saw him.

Leaning against the counter like he owned the shadows. Black shirt, sleeves pushed up, jaw set. He wasn’t part of the party either — not really. Just watching. Quiet. Unbothered.

I only looked at him for a second. Maybe two.

He didn’t look away.

And I felt it — that flicker low in my stomach.

I walked out the back door, pretending I wasn’t flushed.

A few minutes later, it slid open again. He came out like he’d always meant to. Lit a cigarette. Said nothing.

He didn’t look at me. Just took a drag, exhaled slow. Then:

“You smoke?”

I shook my head. “Do I look like I do?”

“No,” he said simply. “That’s why I asked.”

Silence. Not awkward. Just… thick.

“You’re not old enough to be here,” he said finally, eyes still on the sky.

“I could say the same.”

That made him glance over.

His gaze landed, lingered. Calm. Direct. And then, “How old?”

I hesitated. “Seventeen.”

He didn’t react. Just nodded once, like he already knew.

Then he flicked the cigarette away and stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to make my breath catch.

“You cold?”

I nodded.

He pulled the hoodie off his shoulders and held it out.

I took it.

When I slipped it on, his fingers brushed mine. Barely. But it felt like something.

His eyes never left mine. Quiet. Sharp.

“You shouldn’t let boys here talk to you,” he said, voice low. “Not like this.”

“You’re talking to me.”

He smiled. Just a flicker.

“I’m not a boy.”

Then he turned and walked back inside.

Leaving me in his hoodie. Heart racing. Knowing nothing happened. But everything did.