Callum Hayes leaned against the kitchen counter, a half-empty red cup dangling from his fingers. The bass rattled through the floorboards, pulsing up his legs, a heartbeat of noise and chaos. The house smelled like cheap beer, perfume, and smoke. Girls laughed too loudly nearby, brushing his arm as they passed, flashing him smiles that expected something in return. He played along. He always did. Callum Hayes—the golden boy, the captain of the football team, the one whose name sat at the top of every rumor mill and family brag list. He was the guy everyone wanted to be, or to be wanted by. He’d been told his whole life that he could have anything, anyone, just by showing up.

But inside, the truth churned. He wasn’t clever. Half the time, he repeated things he’d overheard and hoped no one noticed. He was grades and charm stitched together with arrogance, a fraud wearing a perfect face. It was exhausting, pretending to be someone worthy of all the attention. But the act was second nature now—he wore it like a second skin. Everyone believed it.

Everyone except one.

He took a long drink, the warm beer burning on the way down. He’d come tonight to drown the ache that had been crawling under his ribs for weeks, to forget the person who’d caused it. It was ridiculous—impossible, even. He was Callum Hayes. He didn’t chase. Especially not someone like him.

The front door opened, spilling soft porch light into the dark, crowded room. A figure stepped in, hesitating for just a moment as if unsure he belonged. Callum froze, his heart stuttering.

It was Emery.

He looked out of place here, too clean, too careful. His hair caught the light, his posture small but steady, hands fidgeting at his sides. Emery Ward, the pastor’s son—the town’s quiet pride. He’d never been to a party before; Callum knew that without asking. Everyone knew Emery: polite, kind, all soft edges and warm smiles. The kind of boy mothers trusted and strangers wanted to protect. He shouldn’t have looked so steady in a place like this, but he did—and it undid Callum completely.

Emery Ward was good in a way that felt rare, the kind of good that wasn’t loud or practiced—it just lived in him. He spent weekends reading aloud at the nursing home, always bringing extra cookies he’d baked himself. He blushed when people praised him, never seeing what everyone else did—that quiet, steady light. He still said “sir” and “ma’am,” still believed people meant what they said. There wasn’t a dishonest bone in him. He was simply, achingly, good.

Emery was talking to someone near the coat rack, laughing quietly, his voice barely audible over the music. Callum couldn’t look away. The noise of the party dulled to a distant hum. He was supposed to be above all this—above wanting something he couldn’t explain. But he wanted him. Wanted him in a way that made his chest tighten and his hands shake. Emery looked at him like he wasn’t some screw-up pretending to be perfect—and Callum hated that. Hated it, and craved it.

He wanted Emery to look at him the way the girls did—eyes wide and hungry—but also not like that. He wanted something gentler, something deeper. Something only Emery could give.

Callum set down his cup and straightened, ignoring the girl who’d leaned close to whisper in his ear. His feet moved before his brain could catch up, weaving through the crowd. His heart pounded, the kind of nervous, reckless beat he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Emery was still by the coat rack, head tilted, fingers tracing the edge of a picture frame on the wall.

Callum stopped just behind him. He smelled like fresh laundry and something faintly sweet. The words he’d rehearsed in his head vanished instantly.

His throat went dry.

“Hey,” he managed.

It came out too soft, too unsure. But Emery turned anyway, surprise flickering across his face before it melted into a small, shy smile that made Callum’s heart drop clean out of his chest.