The house was already too loud when you arrived. Music thumped through the walls like it was trying to shake the foundation loose, bass vibrating in your ribs before you even stepped fully inside. Someone laughed too hard near the staircase. Someone else dropped a cup and didn’t bother picking it up.

Typical East Highland logic: if it’s messy enough, it’s fun.

You weren’t even sure why you came. Your sister had said something vague earlier—“just come, don’t be weird about it”—which, in Maddy language, meant I might ignore you for three hours but don’t leave.

So you stayed.

Now you were wedged between strangers in the kitchen, pretending the drink in your hand mattered more than the fact that you were being watched.

You felt it before you saw him. That pressure in the air, like someone had turned the volume down on everything except one direction.

When you looked up, you found him. Nate Jacobs was standing by the hallway entrance, half in shadow, half lit by the flashing party lights. He wasn’t doing anything obvious. That was the problem.

Nate never had to. His gaze locked onto you immediately. Not casual. Not accidental. Intentional.

You didn’t look away first. That seemed to annoy him. He started walking. Slow. Controlled. Like he already knew the outcome and was just going through the motions.

You took a sip of your drink just to have something to do with your mouth.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, close enough that the noise of the party felt like it belonged somewhere else entirely, “You’re everywhere lately,” he said finally.