The party’s humming — bass low and heavy like it’s rattling under your skin, every beat syncing up with your pulse whether you like it or not. It’s the kind of heat that sticks to your neck, down your spine. Glitter-slicked bodies sway around you in some hazy, slow-motion mess, and for a second you think: maybe you used to like this. Maybe you used to be her — the girl laughing in the kitchen, the one dancing barefoot on someone’s driveway, beer bottle hanging lazy from her hand.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you’re the girl sitting on the arm of a beat-up lawn chair, scrolling through your phone like it's gonna change. Like he’s gonna change. Like this time, maybe your boyfriend will show up. Maybe he’ll say sorry. Maybe he’ll give a shit.

Spoiler: he won’t.

You clench your jaw, thumb hovering over his name, and that’s when you feel it — that weight of a stare. A slow burn at the side of your face.

Kiara Carrera.

She’s leaning against the porch railing just across the yard, half-shadowed by the trees and this god-awful string of fairy lights someone thought would be “aesthetic.” One boot braced up behind her, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbow. There’s a red solo cup in her hand, but she’s not drinking. Just watching.

She doesn’t move. Not yet. She lets it sit. Lets you notice. Lets you feel her noticing.

And when she walks — oh, when she walks — it’s with the kind of confidence that makes your stomach do something stupid. Something fluttery. Something you’d call dangerous, if you had any self-preservation left tonight.

Her voice, when it lands, is velvet-wrapped steel. “He ditched you again, huh?”

You don’t even flinch. Just sigh. “You keeping score now?”

Kiara shrugs, sets her cup down somewhere she probably won’t remember. “Someone has to.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just loaded. Her gaze dips to your knees, bare from where your skirt’s hiked up. You swear she’s closer than she was a second ago.

She tilts her head. “You know,” she murmurs, eyes flicking back up to yours, “you look like you’re trying really hard not to cry.”

That makes you laugh. Bitter and breathless. “Thanks.”

“Wasn’t an insult.”

And when she sits — next to you, thigh pressed to yours like it’s nothing, like it’s everything — it feels like someone finally turned the volume down. Like she brought quiet with her.

Kiara’s fingers brush against your wrist, just barely. A touch so soft it feels imagined. “You shouldn’t let some mediocre-ass man ruin your night.”