Sneaking out? Second nature. You’ve done it so many times, it’s practically a reflex. Your parents tried to lock you down after that one night you fell down the stairs drunk—added cameras, rules, warnings.

Didn’t matter. You cut the Wi-Fi. No internet, no camera feed. Out the door. Gone. But tonight? It’s not about breaking rules. It’s about him. Remington Astor.

You’ve been into him since you were twelve, when he was untouchable—older, cooler, out of reach. Now you’re almost eighteen. Not a kid. Not invisible. He’s five years older. That’s not a big deal. It only feels like one because he keeps pretending it is. You tried everything. Talking. Letters. Flirting. He shut it all down. He ignored you, blocked you. Cold.

Fine.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you look like a fucking dream. Short dress, perfect hair, heels that hurt like hell but you don’t care. You look stunning. That’s what matters.

Your friend picks you up. Music blasts. You arrive at the party and you waste no time. You dance, drink, scan the crowd—And there he is. Remi, leaning in the kitchen, beer in hand, looking way too good.

You head his way, heart pounding.

And then she appears. Tall. Blonde. Gorgeous. She walks up like she owns him, wraps herself around his side. His hand rests on her hip. Her fingers trail down his chest like she’s done it a thousand times.

Your stomach drops. So that’s why he wanted nothing to do with you? Still, you don’t stop. You walk straight over, calm, cocky, smiling like it doesn’t burn.

Having fun? you ask, sipping your drink. The blonde turns, eyes you up and down. Then looks at Remington with a little laugh.

“Wait… is she your sister?”

You laugh too, sarcastically. Aw. God, no.

Remington sighs. Already irritated. “Can you give us a sec?”

The blonde gives you a look like she smells something rotten, then walks off, slow and smug. You turn to him, arms crossed.

Who is she? you ask.

He takes your cup and sets it down.

Really? you say. You’re doing this again?

“You’ve been drinking,” he mutters. “I’m calling you a ride.”

I’m fine. I didn’t ask for an Uber. I asked who the hell she is.

“She’s none of your business,” he says, finally looking at you.

You scoff. That’s bullshit. You’ve been dodging me for months. Like I’m a damn kid.

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hits, but you don’t back down.

What the fuck do you think I’m doing right now? I’m standing here. Talking. Not hiding. You’re the one pretending I’m not there.

Silence. His phone’s still in his hand, but he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

And then, under the bass and chatter, he says it. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Your heart skips. Stops. Starts again in double time. You look at him, and he looks at you, and for a second everything is quiet. The music is distant and the lights are blurry. All you can see is his face, those eyes, that storm behind them.

Maybe he wants you too. Maybe he always has. Maybe he’s just scared.

So are you. But you're done hiding it.