The music pulsed through the house, bass heavy enough to rattle against the walls. Laughter spilled from every corner, drinks sloshed in red cups, and bodies moved in a blur of neon lights and drunken rhythm. The party was alive, chaotic, the kind of night that should’ve felt like freedom. Hughie had been with you earlier, smiling, arm draped over your shoulders, the perfect boyfriend in a perfect picture. But somewhere between the laughter and the noise, you had lost him.

He’d been drinking, already flushed and glassy-eyed, while you remained steady, sober enough to notice his absence. It wasn’t unusual—Hughie could disappear into the crowd, swept up by friends and familiar faces. Still, unease pulled you from the noise, feet guiding you through crowded hallways lined with coats and the smell of spilled alcohol.

The noise dulled as you pushed through a door at the far end of the hall. The dim light spilled across a scene that stole the air from your lungs.

There he was—Hughie. His hands tangled in Lizzie Young’s hair, her arms looped around his neck, their lips pressed together in a kiss that looked effortless. Familiar. Like instinct. They moved with the ease of something that had always existed, as though no time or heartbreak had ever severed it.

You froze, every part of you locking in place, though your chest burned and your throat threatened to close. It shouldn’t have surprised you—not really. A part of you had always known. For every smile, every whisper, every moment you thought was yours, she had her claim.

It was in the way his shoulders relaxed against her. The way he fit in her presence like he belonged.

Hughie pulled back suddenly, finally noticing you standing a few feet away. Your expression betrayed you—broken, wounded, but not surprised. Because this was always where it was going to end. Not with a fight. Not with a choice.

But with the quiet confirmation that Lizzie Young had always been the girl meant for Hughie Biggs.