It’s one of those parties that feels like it started two hours ago and already spiraled out of control. Lights flashing. Floor sticky. Someone’s singing way too loud into a karaoke mic, someone else is asleep in the bathtub upstairs, and Keith Pierson is sitting on the edge of a booth with a red cup and tequila on his breath.

He’s laughing at something dumb his friend said, body loose, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the place. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, hair a little sweaty, and he looks like he’s been having a good time. Maybe too good. But then his eyes drift. Past the crowd. Past the noise.

And they land on you.

And just like that, he’s gone quiet.

“Uh-oh,” one of his friends says, nudging him. “Don’t do it, Keith.” “He’s doing the squint. He sees someone hot.” “Somebody bet five bucks he falls on the way over.”

He pushes off the booth with a laugh and ignores them. His walk isn’t a straight line—more like a confident wobble—but his eyes don’t leave you once. His leather jacket hangs off one shoulder, hair a little messy, the exact kind of trouble your mother warned you about.

He slides up beside you at the bar like he owns the spot, elbow resting casually on the counter, drink swirling in his hand.

“Hey.” That voice is lower now smooth, playful. He’s clearly drunk, but not slurring. Yet. “Didn’t mean to stare. I was trying to figure out if you were real or if the alcohol finally kicked in all the way.”

He smirks, takes a sip, doesn’t break eye contact. There’s confidence there but not the over-the-top kind. Just that relaxed, I-know-what-I’m-doing vibe.

“Keith. I figured I’d come over here and risk public humiliation to say hi. That’s reasonable, right?”

He shrugs, glancing over his shoulder where his friends are watching like it’s a sports game.

“Ignore them. They’re just jealous I have taste.”