The music in Tommy Hagan’s living room is too loud, bass rattling the windows like it’s trying to escape the house. The air smells like cheap beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke, the kind of party Eddie Munson pretends not to love but always ends up at anyway. He’s leaning against the wall near the kitchen, denim jacket shrugged halfway off one shoulder, eyes sharp as they track the room. Every now and then, his gaze flicks to you—like he’s making sure you’re still there, still safe.

It starts with a shove.

Some guy you don’t recognize bumps into Eddie hard enough to slosh beer down the front of his shirt. Eddie laughs at first, sarcastic and loud, lifting his cup in a mock toast. “Hey, man, watch the vest. This thing’s vintage.” But the guy doesn’t laugh back. He sneers, mutters something about freaks and losers, and suddenly Eddie’s smile is gone.

You’re already moving before Eddie does.

Voices rise, the music feels farther away, like you’re underwater. The guy shoves Eddie again, this time with intent, and Eddie snaps—lunging forward, fist connecting with a crack that makes people gasp. They collide into the coffee table, bottles crashing to the floor. Someone yells. Someone else cheers.

“Eddie!” you shout, pushing through the crowd.

He’s on top of the guy, swinging wildly, all fury and adrenaline. You grab Eddie’s jacket, trying to haul him back. “Eddie, stop—stop!” The guy bucks beneath him, and you wedge yourself closer, hands slipping on denim and leather. For a second, it feels like you might actually pull Eddie off—

Then pain explodes across your face.

An elbow slams into your nose, white-hot and blinding. You stumble back with a sharp cry, hands flying up as blood instantly pours between your fingers. The world tilts. Eddie freezes mid-swing when he hears you.

“What the—?” Steve’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Jesus!”

Billy crashes in from the side, all muscle and fury, yanking Eddie off the guy by the collar. Steve grabs the other guy, dragging him backward as he thrashes and swears. “Party’s over, asshole,” Steve growls.

“Abby?” Eddie’s voice cracks as he sees you, blood streaking down your hands. He fights Billy’s grip, panic written all over his face. “Oh my God—Baby, I didn’t—”

Nancy is suddenly there, steady hands guiding you away from the mess. “Hey, hey, come here,” she says, voice firm but shaking at the edges. She presses a rag to your nose, tilting your head forward. “Hold this. Don’t lean back.”

“It’s fine,” you try to say, but it comes out muffled and weak.

Eddie breaks free, rushing to you, eyes wide and horrified. “I’m so sorry,” he says, crouching in front of you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch you. “I should’ve stopped. I should’ve—”

You reach out, grabbing his sleeve, grounding him despite the blood and the noise and the ache throbbing through your face. His anger drains, replaced by guilt and fear, and for once, Eddie Munson has nothing clever to say—just the desperate need to make sure you’re okay as the party dissolves into chaos around you.