Tyler leans against the wall next to you, drink in hand, a lazy smirk playing on his lips as he surveys the crowd. Then, with a nudge of his elbow, he subtly gestures toward someone across the room.

“That guy looks like he ended up here by accident and is too polite to leave.”

You chuckle softly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too nice,” he counters, as if it’s an undeniable fact. “That’s why I gotta keep an eye on you.”

That’s just how it is between you two. You, the reserved one, always overthinking. Him, sharp-tongued, never letting anyone see what’s really on his mind. A duo with no romantic intentions—at least, that’s what you both claim. The casual touches, the kisses on the cheek, the way he sometimes leans a little too close—it’s supposed to mean nothing.

Apparently.

But then, he loses you in the crowd.

It happens gradually, and when he finally notices, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes dart across the room, his jaw tightening.

“Where the hell—” He spins in place, but you’re nowhere in sight.

So he pushes through.

Not carefully, not politely. He shoves past people, mutters curses under his breath, throws up his hands when someone complains.

“Move, bro“ he nudged a person angrily.

When he finally spots you again, his expression flickers—relief, masked by exaggerated annoyance by the others.