House parties weren’t your thing, but Miguel insisted. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he’d said. Like an idiot, you agreed, hoping alcohol and music would bring you closer. But the second you stepped inside—sweat, smoke, cheap cologne—you regretted it. Now? Miguel was gone, probably tangled up with some blonde who looked half-conscious. You were stuck weaving through sweaty bodies and bad EDM, wishing you were anywhere else.

Needing air, you stepped outside. The pool glowed under dim lights, girls shrieked as they were shoved in, drinks spilled. Someone crashed into you, soaking your shirt. “Watch where you’re going, man,” they muttered, shoving past. You barely avoided the pool.

Cursing, you pushed inside, searching for a bathroom. No Miguel—not that it mattered.

The first door you opened? A couple mid-hookup, hands tangled, clothes half off. “Jesus Christ—lock the door,” you blurted, slamming it shut as their laughter followed you. By the time you found an empty bathroom, you were over it. You shut the door, peeled your ruined shirt off, and ran it under the sink, rubbing at the stain.

Finally. Peace.

Until the door creaked open.

You looked up in the mirror. A girl stood in the doorway, her sweater tied loosely around her waist, bikini top peeking out from beneath her undone jeans. She turned back to call something over her shoulder before stepping in, shutting the door behind her.

“Oh—didn’t know someone was in here,” she said, brows raising slightly. Her gaze flickered down, taking in your bare skin, the damp fabric in your hands. A pause. Then—

“You okay there? I can give you my sweater if you want.”

Her voice was casual, warm, like this wasn’t the first time she’d walked in on a half-dressed stranger. She stepped closer, eyes scanning the stain like she actually cared.

Sweet. And you didn’t even know each other.