The party had that familiar Figure Eight stench — expensive cologne, top-shelf liquor, weed, and the sour reek of entitlement. Every room pulsed with manic energy. Laughter came too loud, too sharp. Bodies moved too fast. It all felt seconds from spinning out of control.

The kind of chaos that never scared Rafe Cameron — it was him.

Upstairs, the noise dulled. Rafe had taken over one of the guest rooms, turned it into his usual hideout — part drug den, part throne room. The cracked window let smoke drift out into the humid night. A few people had wandered in earlier — Cut kids looking to score, or Kooks too strung out to be interesting. He didn’t care. They were nothing. Temporary.

His high sat just under his skin, buzzing in his limbs, making him weightless and heavy at the same time. The weed softened the edge, but the coke had turned his brain into a blade. He didn’t trust himself like this. But he wasn’t here to be trusted.

He flicked ash into an empty beer can, jaw clenched. Eyes restless. Always waiting — for the crash, for Ward to look at him like a burden again. Like a broken thing that couldn’t be fixed.

The door clicked shut behind someone. He turned his head.

You stood there, backlit by the hallway. And something twisted low in his gut. You weren’t supposed to be here — not at this kind of party, not upstairs, not near him. And yet, you weren’t afraid. Just out of place, in a way that made the whole room feel dirtier just for existing around you.

It pissed him off. Not at you — at everything else.

You held yourself like you weren’t here for anyone’s approval. Calm. Sure. You weren’t like the rest — chasing highs or feeding off his name. You were real. You made your own orbit. And maybe that’s why it mattered. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to drag you into his orbit too.

He looked away first.

“You don’t belong here,” he muttered, voice rough with smoke. Then quieter, without looking back, “Go before I do something I can’t take back.”