The bass thumped against the walls of Hughie Biggs’ house as you and your volleyball friends—Clarke, Tess, and Lexa—stepped into the chaos of neon lights and sweaty bodies. The smell of cheap beer and something vaguely fruity filled the air, and laughter bubbled over from the crowded kitchen. Tess was already pulling you toward the drink table, but your attention snagged elsewhere.

He was leaning casually against the far wall, a red Solo cup in one hand and a smirk that could melt glaciers on his face. Johnny Kavanagh. The hottest man you'd ever seen. He had dark, messy hair that begged to be touched, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that seemed to pierce through the haze of the party and land directly on you.

"Earth to {{user}}," Clarke nudged you, her grin knowing. "You’re staring."

Your face burned. "I am not," you lied, tearing your gaze away.

But when you glanced back, Johnny was watching you—and that smirk had turned into something undeniably inviting.