You were at a posh classmate’s birthday, marble floors, expensive speakers, and champagne flutes like props. You’d barely touched your drink when Corey texted: “Outside.” You knew this wasn’t his scene, but he still showed up.

He rolled up in his beat-up car, hoodie on, chain swinging. A few people snickered. Hugo — the birthday boy — stepped out smirking. “Oi, you must be her boyfriend. Come in, mate. We’ve got real drinks tonight.”

Corey just stared. Then walked right in.

The music dipped. Heads turned. Corey didn’t flinch. He made himself at home, leaning on the counter, lighting a cig like he owned the place.

“You alright, mate?” Hugo said again, fake-friendly.

“Nah, not your mate,” Corey muttered, not even looking at him. “But I’m staying. You invited me, remember?”

You tried to pull him aside, but he pulled you closer instead. Everyone was watching, frozen. No one laughed this time.