The VIP lounge smells like mold, spilled liquor, and bad decisions that never made it upstairs.

There’s a couch that might’ve been leather once, now just cracked and sticky, and I’m sunk into it like it knows I won’t fight back. The neon light over the bar flickers between red and dead, casting everything in a sick glow. Music bleeds through the walls—too loud, too close—vibrating straight through my ribs.

Damon’s pressed into my side, warm and reckless, already halfway through his second drink.

“No,” I say automatically as he tips his glass toward me.

He ignores that, obviously.

“Don’t be boring,” he says, voice bright with laughter as he nudges the rim against my mouth. “It’s a party.”

I sigh, but I open my lips anyway. He pours. A little too much. It burns on the way down, sharp and familiar, and I cough just enough for him to grin like he’s won something.

“Good boy,” he says, patting my cheek.

Kai snorts from across the low table, shaking his head. “You’re gonna kill him.”

Damon waves him off. “Relax. Will’s basically preserved at this point. Pickled.”

I laugh because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because it’s easier than admitting my hands were already shaking before the glass touched my lips.

Michael’s standing near the wall, arms crossed, watching the room like it owes him money. He doesn’t look at me, not directly, and I’m grateful for that. He notices things. Too much.

Damon doesn’t.

Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

He pours another drink, sets it in my hand like it belongs there. Like I belong there—with something to hold, something to swallow, something to keep me smooth and easy and pleasant.

“Slow down,” Kai says quietly, eyes flicking to me this time.

“I am,” I lie, smiling at him. “I’m pacing myself.”

Damon laughs again, loud and delighted, slinging an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer. “He’s fine. Look at him. Functioning. Charming. Adorable.”

I lean into it without thinking, head bumping his shoulder as I take another sip. It’s easier when he hands it to me. Easier when I don’t have to decide.

A girl passes by, runs her fingers through my hair like she’s testing texture. I tilt my head up, give her a grin. She lingers. Always do.

Damon watches her, then me, eyes flicking between us with that sharp, knowing interest. “Careful,” he tells her lazily. “He bites when he’s sober.”

She laughs and disappears. Damon presses the glass back into my hand.

“Drink,” he says.

So I do.

The room blurs just enough around the edges, music softening, thoughts going pleasantly quiet. Damon’s thigh is warm against mine. Kai’s voice is distant but steady. Michael’s presence anchors the room whether he wants it to or not.

I swallow again, letting the burn chase everything else away.

Down here, I don’t have to say no. I just have to keep smiling.