The party was loud—bass pulsing through the floorboards, voices overlapping in every room. You weren’t even supposed to be there that long, but your friends had begged you to come out. So here you were, red cup in hand, talking to some guy whose name you already forgot.

Then you felt it—eyes on you.

You turned slightly and caught sight of Chris across the room.

He was leaning against the wall, hood pulled low, arms crossed, but the way his jaw was clenched told you everything. He wasn’t just watching—he was fuming. You hadn’t spoken in a couple weeks, not really. A few texts here and there. A hook-up that left the lines blurry again. Then silence.

Now he was here.

And he did not like what he was seeing.

You laughed at something the guy said—honestly, you didn’t even hear it—but that was the final straw. Chris pushed off the wall and started walking toward you, eyes locked in.

“Hey,” he said, barely glancing at the other guy. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Uh—”

He didn’t wait.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, not hard, just enough to say we’re going. You shot the guy a quick “sorry” before Chris was already pulling you down the hallway, past drunk strangers and into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. The music faded behind it.