The bass from the speakers is already rattling in your chest by the time you step into the backyard, the warm night air heavy with the smell of beer, sweat, and the faint sweetness of someone’s overpriced perfume. Strings of golden lights crisscross above, catching in your hair every time you move, but you keep your gaze low, your fingers curling slightly into the silk of your black dress.

You weren’t supposed to be here. At least, not in the way everyone else is — chasing some badge of popularity like it’s worth bleeding for. But the older girls from your new republic insisted you tag along. “You’ll make a good impression,” one of them had said, looping her arm through yours earlier, “especially in that dress.” You hadn’t told her you didn’t care about impressions.

The boy’s republic house sits directly across from yours, and tonight, both worlds have spilled into one messy, buzzing crowd.

On the other side of the yard, near the beer pong table, Tristan Bailey is surrounded by his closest friends — the kind of loud, easy group that owns the space they stand in. He’s leaning casually against the railing, tall and athletic, a bottle dangling loosely from his hand, grinning at something one of his teammates says. The lights hit his face just right, turning his hair a warm gold, his smile something almost unfair.

You don’t see him. You’re too busy sticking close to the girls you came with, letting them lead you deeper into the party.

But he sees you.

Tristan’s mid-laugh when his eyes flick toward the back gate and catch the shine of your hair under the lights — that impossible, coppery ginger that looks like it would still glow in the dark. His gaze travels, unhurried, down the curve of your black silk dress and back up to the freckles scattered over your nose. You’re smaller than most of the girls here, shoulders slightly tucked in, but somehow you look like you belong in the spotlight you clearly don’t want.

“Who’s that?” one of his friends nudges him, following his line of sight. “Never seen her before. She with the new girls from Rosehall?”

“She’s a freshman,” another chimes in, tone almost dismissive. “Not your usual type, man.”

Tristan doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you laugh — a soft, brief thing, almost hidden — at something one of the older girls says.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet his for just a moment — maybe by accident, maybe not — and instead of the usual wide-eyed smile he gets from girls, you give him the smallest, polite nod. No lingering, no hair-twirling, no bite of the lip. Just that brief acknowledgment, the dimples flashing for half a second before you look away again.

“Wow,” one of his friends laughs under his breath. “She didn’t even—”

“Yeah,” Tristan cuts in, still watching you weave deeper into the party. “I noticed.”