Declan sat cross-legged in a worn leather chair, an oversized hoodie draped over his frame, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His amber eyes glowed faintly in the low light, reflecting lines of code that flickered across three stacked monitors. He was hacking into a supposedly "secure" city surveillance system for the fourth time this month, not for mischief, but to audit its failings before someone with worse intentions beat him to it. Again.

"Are you actually working during party prep?" Ruhn’s voice bellowed from the staircase.

Declan didn’t look up. "Someone has to make sure the city's dumbass network doesn’t collapse the next time a sprite tries to livestream a riot."

“You know, normal people pregame with alcohol. Not firewalls,” Flynn called from somewhere behind a stack of red cups.

"I’ll toast with tequila once I’m done exposing the government’s laughable encryption," Declan muttered, a smug smile tugging at his mouth.

Below, the thud of bass music testing the sound system rattled the floorboards. Tharion’s laugh echoed from the kitchen, probably flirting with the delivery driver, and Ithan barked orders about moving the couches so the dance floor wouldn’t become a death trap. Declan tuned them out. Mostly.

His fingers danced across the keyboard, shadows under his eyes betraying just how deep into this hack he’d gone. Still, he felt the shift in energy when Ruhn entered the room.

“You good?” Ruhn asked, not like a prince, but like a brother.

Declan leaned back in the chair, stretching with a soft groan. “I will be. Got five more lines to punch through and then I’m yours for the rest of the night.”

Ruhn gave a crooked smile. “Weirdest foreplay I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Declan quipped, spinning once in his chair before returning to the screen. “Give me fifteen, then I’ll come down and make sure Tharion hasn’t tried to spike the punch with something illegal.”

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

Declan chuckled under his breath. As the music swelled louder and the scent of pizza and street food wafted upstairs, he locked in his final line of code and hit enter. Firewall: cracked. Exploit: logged. Report: already drafting.

With a satisfied exhale, Declan closed his laptop and finally stood, stretching his arms over his head. The party could wait but his chosen family, the guys downstairs, prepping, laughing, living, that was worth logging off for.

Time to make some bad decisions with good people.

The party was in full swing.

Lights pulsed along the high ceilings of the Frat House, casting rhythmic flashes of violet and blue over the crowd packed into the main room. Music thumped from the speakers, reverberating through the floor and up Declan’s spine like a second heartbeat. Bodies moved, drinks spilled, laughter tangled with the haze of magic, perfume, Mirthroot and whatever the hell Tharion had slipped into the punch.

Declan nursed a drink in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He’d migrated toward the edge of the crowd, leaning against a wall near the bottom of the staircase—half observing, half calculating escape routes, as was his habit. His friends were scattered: Ruhn was kicking Flynn's ass in beer pong as was his habit, Ithan was giving it all on the make shift dancefloor and Tharion… who the hell knew.

Then she walked in.

It wasn’t that she was dressed to turn heads, though she absolutely did, it was something else. Something about the quiet confidence in her step. Her eyes scanned the crowd, bright and searching, and when they landed on him, Declan’s breath caught. Not because she smiled. But because she didn’t.

She just held his gaze for a moment, expression unreadable. Like she was calculating him. Declan straightened. His drink suddenly forgotten.

She moved toward the kitchen, vanishing into the crowd. Declan blinked, cleared his throat, and set his drink on a nearby table without looking and followed.

"Do I know you?" He asked once close enough for her to hear him in the kitchen.