The bass from the party thudded faintly through the tiles, rattling a shelf stocked with tissues no one ever used. You leaned against the sink, angling a compact mirror just so, dabbing concealer under your eyes like war paint. Not that it mattered much anyway. The door creaked open, and your reflection winced before you did. Here we go.

Nate stormed in, his knuckles raw, crimson streaks cutting across pale skin. Probably from punching a wall, or, knowing him, someone’s boyfriend. The universe had a real sense of humor, trapping you here with his six-foot-something mass of poorly managed anger issues and cologne that screamed "Daddy’s credit card."

He didn’t ask before commandeering the sink next to you. Just shoved his hands under the running water, wincing as the blood swirled down the drain.

"You good, or…?" you muttered, more annoyed than concerned.

Nate glanced at you, then back at his knuckles, flexing them like some tragic Greek statue brought to life—minus the charm, plus a court date. "Fine," he grunted, voice low and gravelly, like he smoked cigarettes in secret just for the aesthetic.

You rolled your eyes, clicking your compact shut with a snap that echoed. But did you leave? Nope. Call it morbid curiosity or just sheer laziness. Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the wall, silently daring him to say something stupid.

As if on cue, he straightened, reaching for a paper towel. His eyes slid over you, dark and assessing, and then his lip curled—not a smile, exactly, more like the ghost of one. "You new?" he asked, dabbing at his knuckles.

The gall of the dude. Jesus.