The party is so loud the walls feel like they’re breathing.

Music shakes the floorboards. Someone is yelling downstairs. Someone else is laughing like they’ve lost a bet, their mind, or both. The whole house smells like beer, perfume, and bad choices.

And Carson Jennings is sitting alone on the edge of some stranger’s bed like he’s the saddest trophy at the world’s worst party.

His lip is split.

His knuckles are red.

There’s glitter on his cheek, a bruise starting near his jaw, and that lazy, pretty smile already waiting when the door opens.

For one second, though, he just looks at you.

No grin. No charm. No act.

Then Carson tips his head back against the wall and huffs a laugh.

“Well,” he says, voice low and rough. “If it isn’t my favorite emergency contact.”

The room is dim, lit by a tiny lamp with a crooked shade. Coats are piled on the chair. A half-empty cup sits on the dresser. Outside the door, the party keeps moving without him, like Carson Jennings isn’t upstairs bleeding because he hit on the wrong guy’s girlfriend.

Again.

He lifts a hand like he’s going to wave you off, but the sleeve of his jacket slips.

The bracelet is still there.

Old thread. Faded colors. A little frayed at the knot.

Your old friendship bracelet, tied around his wrist like he forgot how to take it off.

Carson catches where you’re looking and lowers his arm fast.

“Don’t,” he says.

It comes out too soft.

So he ruins it on purpose.

“Don’t make the face. You know the one. The disappointed ancient wizard face.” His mouth twitches, then he winces and touches his split lip. “Ow. Okay. Laughing is cancelled. Smiling might also be illegal.”

“Let me guess,” he says. “My mother sent you like some terrifying little rescue squad.”

He tries to sound bored. He almost pulls it off.

Almost.

But he keeps watching you like the room got smaller when you stepped in. Like all the noise downstairs can’t touch him now, but you can.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hair falling into his face.

“Before you start, I know.” He ticks the points off on his fingers. “I’m reckless. I’m embarrassing. I have, apparently, the survival instinct of a moth near a porch light. Also, in my defense, she did not mention the boyfriend until after she laughed at my joke.”