brooks wexler has a way of filling a room without even trying. born into a name that means money, power, reputation. he doesn’t really have a choice. his father is the mayor, his mother’s the type who can silence a room with one sharp look, and brooks has been groomed since childhood to be the perfect heir. perfect smile, perfect grades, perfect son. he plays the part so well it almost looks natural. captain of the football team, sharp dresser even when he’s casual, always with the kind of posture that screams i was raised to be watched.

but under the polish, he’s restless. there’s a fire in him that won’t go out, and it burns hottest when he’s left alone with his thoughts. he hates how much of his life is performance. hates being introduced as the mayor’s son. hates that people only ever see the last name before they see him. so he rebels in private. sneaks into parties, drinks too much, experiments with pills, hooks up recklessly. writes poetry on his phone in the middle of the night, dark and jagged, words he’ll never let anyone else read.

he dated you once. long enough to show him what it feels like to be wanted for himself, not the wexler name. long enough to prove that someone could break through the walls he’s been building since childhood. and when it ended, it ended ugly. his pride got in the way, the same pride that’s been beaten into him since he was old enough to walk in his father’s shadow. he couldn’t admit he loved you. couldn’t chase you, couldn’t give you the kind of vulnerability he’s terrified of. so he let you go, even though he never wanted to.

now it’s summer, his parents out of town for some campaign event, and the wexler mansion is alive with music, neon lights glowing across the pool, bodies pressed close, voices shouting over bass-heavy speakers. it’s the kind of party where everyone shows up, even people who claim they hate him. the place reeks of chlorine and expensive liquor, the kind of excess only someone like brooks could pull off.

he’s leaning against the railing near the pool, red solo cup in hand, his football friends crowding around him. q and gage, both already too drunk, warner yelling something about shotgunning beers. brooks laughs on cue, his polished smile slipping into something looser, buzzed, a little reckless. his eyes skim the crowd like he’s searching for something, and then he sees you.

you’re standing with your friends near the edge of the pool, looking too good under the glow of the pool lights. it hits him like a punch, how badly he’s missed you, how much he’s tried to drown that ache in drinks and strangers. his chest tightens, but the pride in him. the same pride that ruined everything, keeps his steps measured, his smirk fixed, his voice steady.

he weaves through the crowd until he’s standing in front of you, the smell of whiskey and mint gum clinging to him. his words come slow, tipped just enough by the liquor to be honest in a way he usually isn’t.

“thought you weren’t gonna show,” he says, casual on the surface, but his eyes flicker with something sharper, something he can’t quite hide. “guess i still know how to throw a party you can’t resist.”