The night had that sort of sharp chill only forest air could bring—thin, wild, filled with the smell of pine and smoke. The kind of night that made your skin prickle, even through the haze of alcohol burning warm in your veins. Music had thundered minutes ago, booming from cheap Bluetooth speakers balanced on tree stumps, the bass rattling your ribs. Someone had brought fairy lights, stringing them haphazardly between branches, casting the clearing in an almost dreamlike glow.

You hadn’t meant to drink that much. You never did. But it was easy. Easy to sip from whatever cup was handed to you, to pretend you could keep up with people who had stronger livers and weaker pasts. You weren’t the party type—everyone knew that. You were the one who dipped early, who nursed a single drink all night. But tonight, something tugged at you. Maybe loneliness. Maybe rebellion. Maybe the exhaustion of trying to hold yourself together for so long.

Now, everything was too bright. Your body too loose. You sat slumped in a cheap plastic folding chair someone had left by the fire pit, legs splayed, arms limp in your lap. Your mouth was dry, sticky from some too-sweet punch, and your head lolled to the side as your thoughts floated untethered. You barely registered the sudden change in energy until it was too late.

The sirens cracked through the night like lightning.

Everyone ran. Screams and footsteps thudding against dirt. Leaves crunched. Bottles shattered. Voices shouted “Go! Go!” and shadows darted into the trees.

You blinked slowly, watching it all unravel like a movie you weren’t part of. Your limbs didn’t respond. You tried to push yourself up, but your knees buckled and you gave up. The lights were too fast. Your brain too slow. So you stayed.

And he found you.

Colin Zabel—your dad's good friend emerged from the trees, flashlight beam slicing through the fog of smoke and bad decisions. His silhouette was solid and steady, the badge on his jacket catching in the red-blue strobes of the cruiser lights parked at the edge of the woods. His face came into view slowly, brows raised in that half-skeptical, half-disappointed expression he wore so well.

He stopped a few feet from you, hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

You grinned, bleary-eyed. Your voice was soft, dragging. “Hi, Colin.”

He walked closer, the crunch of his boots the only sound now that the party had scattered. The music was gone. Just the sound of the fire popping and the occasional hum of a distant engine. He crouched beside you, glancing over your flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. You reeked of alcohol and sugar and smoke.

“I thought you didn’t do parties,” he said, voice dry.

You slurred out a response, something half-hearted about trying to be fun. He shook his head slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re drunk off your ass,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

He looked around, probably noting the discarded beer cans, the overturned speaker, the trashed cooler. Then his gaze returned to you—his expression unreadable now. Somewhere between amused and resigned. With a soft sigh, he reached behind him and pulled out his handcuffs.

Your eyes widened a little, blinking slowly. “You’re… arresting me?”

“No,” he said, voice flat. He clicked cuffs on your wrists.

“Temporary prison,” he added. “You’ll survive.”

You slouched lower in the chair, smiling like you didn’t quite understand but trusted him anyway. Your lashes fluttered. Your head tilted toward his knee.

He stood again, stretching his back, letting out a long sigh that turned to a puff of mist in the cold night.

Then he said softly—more under his breath “You’re lucky it’s me.”

He turned, radioing something into his shoulder and then he smiled to you warmly