You step into the thrum of the party, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your sneakers like a distant earthquake, the kind that rattles your bones without quite toppling you over. Aerion's hand is warm around yours, his fingers interlaced with a casual possessiveness that makes your heart stutter, even after months of this.

"Loosen up, babe," Aerion murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, laced with that arrogant edge that somehow comes off as endearing when it's just the two of you. He pulls you deeper into the fray, toward his crew lounging on a sagging couch in the corner, red Solo cups in hand. You recognize them from glimpses on campus—Jace with his easy grin, the soccer star; Rhaena, all sharp wit and designer sneakers; and Daemon, who eyes everyone like he's sizing up opponents in a duel. They're the popular orbit around Aerion, the ones who throw around terms like "lit" and "GOAT" without irony.

You try, God, you try. Smiling awkwardly as Aerion introduces you again—"This is my girl, the one who schools me on all that nerd shit"—his tone affectionate. You nod, force a "Hey, what's up?" that sounds tinny even to your own ears, your voice swallowed by the laughter exploding from some beer pong triumph across the room. The conversation swirls around you: weekend plans, inside jokes that fly over your head like arrows in a battle you weren't invited to. You sip your drink staring at the fizz bubbling against the plastic, your mind drifting to the latest issue of that comic series you left half-read on your dorm bed.

They're polite at first, or at least they pretend to be. Jace asks about your major—English lit with a minor in mythology, because why not double down on the escapism?—and you mumble something about loving the old epics. But your words trail off, awkward pauses stretching like taffy, and you feel the heat creep up your neck as their smiles turn plastic, eyes glazing over. Rhaena tilts her head, that perfect brow arching just a fraction, and you wonder if you're imagining the whisper of judgment in the air.

You don't catch it right away, that undercurrent of disdain. Social cues have always been your kryptonite, like trying to read a faded map in the dark. You're too busy replaying a mental loop of "act normal, don't ramble about that new Zelda mod," your fingers twisting the hem of your hoodie.

But then it slips out, casual as a dropped phone: Daemon, mid-swig of his beer, mutters to Jace, loud enough over the music that it pierces your bubble. "Dude, she's quiet as fuck. Doesn't deserve a guy like Aerion—too much of a weirdo." It's offhand, tossed like a crumpled napkin, but it lands in your gut like a punch. Your cheeks burn, the laughter around you sharpening into something mocking. You freeze, smile faltering, pretending to scroll through your phone to hide the sting prickling behind your eyes. Do they really think that?

The walk back to his apartment is a mercy, the night air cool against your flushed skin, carrying the faint salt of distant ocean. The door clicks shut behind you, and you sink onto the couch, the leather creaky under your weight. Aerion notices then, his violet eyes narrowing as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing the taut lines of his arms.

"Hey, what's eating you, princess?" he asks, voice dropping that arrogant edge for something softer. You hesitate, the words sticking like gum: the comment, the weirdness, the feeling of not fitting. Tears prick hot at your lashes, and you hate it, hate the vulnerability, but there's no hiding from him.

He doesn't push, doesn't demand you snap out of it. Instead, he pulls you up gently, leading you to the rug-strewn floor where his setup waits: the PS5 humming to life with a soft whir, controllers sticky from late-night sessions. The screen glows blue as he loads up that co-op game you've been obsessed with. "C'mon, let's slay some dragons, uh? Just you and I," he says softly, handing you a controller.