It was your very first house party, and you’d gone with a handful of friends. By midnight, the place had become a blur of noise, laughter, music, and too many drinks. The floor was sticky, the air heavy with perfume and smoke. Somewhere between the flashing lights and the spilled liquor, your phone ended up in your hand, Isaac’s name glowing on the screen. You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. He was your ex, after all. But at 1 a.m. you called him anyway, begging him to come get you. You barely remembered giving him the address, only that Scarlett tried and failed to wrestle the phone away.

For Isaac, it wasn’t even a question. He was in the middle of a late-night stream when the call came in, but the moment he heard your voice he cut it short. The rain outside was relentless, hammering down in sheets, but still he ran, not even grabbing a jacket. The house was close. Fifteen minutes.

When he finally reached the street, you were already outside, standing unsteadily in the downpour. Your clothes clung to you, your hair plastered to your face, swaying on your feet as Scarlett held you upright. Isaac slowed for only a heartbeat, taking you in, then approached, water dripping from his hair, his all-black clothes soaked through and clinging to his frame. “How bad is it?” His voice was low, roughened by the rain and the sprint. His gaze didn’t leave you, even as he asked the question. Scarlett tightened her grip on your arm and giggled, obviously drunk as well. “She’s absolutely smashed. I couldn’t stop her from calling.”