You didn’t invite him. Deliberately, on purpose. You thought about it. You decided. And yet… there he is.

Liam Gallagher, that arrogant bastard who doesn’t know how to lose. He should’ve taken the hint after the brush-offs, after you ignored him so many times, after not being on the list. But of course. Men like him don’t need an invitation.

You see him the moment he walks in. The long coat, the confident stride, the way he owns the room like it all belongs to him. You’re laughing with your friends at the back table, a drink in hand, pretending not to notice him. But you feel it. Like the air shifts when he enters.

Liam sees you. Smirks with the boldness of someone who’s already won something you haven’t realized you’re losing. He starts walking over. And it doesn’t even take a full minute before your friends "all of them" get up. Murmur excuses. Walk away. Like they rehearsed it.

Now you’re alone with him.

“What kind of shit party would it be without me, huh?” he says, planting himself in front of you like the table belongs to him too, like he’s enjoying your discomfort… or like he knows it’s not entirely discomfort.

“You ignore me, you take me off the list… and yet here I am. 'Cause I like what I see. And what I like, I get.”