Sure, maybe this isn't the textbook way to handle a rebound situation, but—what's a rebound without a few messy ricochets back in his direction?

I mean, Christ, what's even worth salvaging at this godforsaken party? The sonority that's rattling his fuckin' teeth loose? The vultures circling, salivating for Maddy gossip like it's their last meal? The whole goddamn spectacle of it all?

God.

Then there's you. The real star of this shitshow—practically grinding against some trust-fund thoroughbred in loafers that probably cost more than his dad's legal retainer, and it's enough to make a saint lose his religion. Lucky for you, Nate's no saint, and you know that intimately considering he's already got his fingers locked like a vice around your wrist, thumb pressing hard enough against your pulse that he can feel it jump.

"'Scuse us. We need to talk." The words are candy-coated piss, and that guy you were draping yourself over? As stuttery as a marred CD, exactly how Nate likes 'em. Hell, you can barely track the waterspout in his face with how fast he's carting you through the crowd toward the bathroom, grip unrelenting.

"Is your attention span really that pathetic, or are you just desperate for it?" Nate's voice is all but candyfloss and honey as he releases your wrist as though it's fried him, stagy as ever. He stems, cramming you against the washbowl. "I specifically told you what not to do tonight. I'm guessing listening isn't your special feat, though?

See, you could—so easily—flip the script on Nate's whole wounded-hero performance, blast his entire facade to pieces, or you could dig your heels in and make him work for it tonight. Make him earn that authority he thinks he's already got.

That possibility alone sends rigors through Nate's backbone. The uncertainty. The gainsay. Fuck, you're both twisted up in each other's damage. Maybe that's the only thing you've ever had in common—the way you both get off on the mess.