The compound is loud tonight — music thumping through the floors, glasses clinking, people packed shoulder-to-shoulder in their best clothes. You slip in quietly, already regretting coming, but pretending you don’t.

Then you see him.

James.

Standing near the bar in a fitted dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, metal arm on full display, looking devastating without even trying. And of course he’s surrounded — three women hovering close, laughing too loudly, leaning into his space, all long legs and tiny waists and glossy hair.

Your stomach twists. You force yourself to breathe.

You’re confident in your work, in the field. But here? In this room filled with perfect people? You can’t shake the quiet thought that he’d never look at you the way you look at him.

So you turn away—because watching him with them hurts more than you want to admit. But you don’t make it three steps before a familiar voice speaks behind you, low and warm:

“Running off without saying hi?”

You freeze and slowly, you turn. There he is. James. Standing right behind you like he broke away the second he noticed you walking in.

The women are still at the bar, watching him, waiting for him to return. He doesn’t even glance their way.

His eyes are only on you.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the noise of the party. There’s a faint crease between his brows — like he noticed something in your expression you didn’t mean for anyone to see.

“You okay?” he asks softly. “You looked… upset.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Just… needed air.”

He searches your face, not buying it for a second.

“You know you don’t have to pretend with me,” he says. “Not here. Not ever.”

Before you can answer, someone calls his name from across the room — one of the women, smiling in a way that makes your heart drop.

James doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t move.

Instead, he steps even closer, lowering his voice just for you.

“I’d rather talk to you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

His eyes drift down your face, lingering a second too long before returning to your gaze — warm, steady, intent.

“So,” he murmurs, “can I stay with you tonight? Because the only person I came here hoping to see… was you.”