The party was loud in that specific college way, like someone had bottled chaos, added bass, and called it Friday night.
Jesse Kline leaned against the kitchen counter, peeling the label off a beer bottle because pretending to look busy was easier than talking. His band had played a three-song set in the living room earlier, messy and sweaty with one broken string, and people had clapped just enough for it to count.
He wasn’t sure if it was pride or exhaustion humming in his veins. Probably both. Or neither. He could feel the afterglow in his hands, that faint tremor he always got after performing. The kind that made him breathe deeper, stand looser, feel just a little too alive.
His phone buzzed. Group chat: Sad Boy Supremacy.
Levi: bro she’s here Jesse: who Levi: her. business major. barbie dictator. ur roman empire
Jesse scoffed under his breath and pocketed the phone. Roman Empire, his ass.
Still, he looked up.
And there she was.
Center of gravity, right there in the room. She looked like she came with her own spotlight — glossy hair, lip gloss that caught the light, laugh that cut through the noise. Every guy within five feet was suddenly performing for her approval.
He told himself he didn’t care. He always told himself that.
But she was different up close. Sharper, calmer, like she’d studied how to be untouchable and aced it. The kind of girl who made you straighten up without meaning to. The kind of girl who could ruin your life politely.
Her gaze slid over the crowd and then landed on him.
For half a second, their eyes met. His, green and defiant. Hers, cool and unreadable.
She looked away first. Of course she did.
Jesse smirked anyway because pretending things didn’t sting was practically a hobby. The truth was he noticed everything. Always had. Every glance. Every whisper. Every time someone said his name like it was both a compliment and a warning.
He ran a hand through his hair, black dye fading at the roots, trying not to look like he was adjusting himself because her eyes had been on him. He could feel it though, that tug low in his chest. That spark that usually ended with a song he’d never play for anyone.
Levi appeared beside him and shoved a drink into his hand. “She’s totally your type,” he said with a grin.
“What, human?”
“Hot and way out of your league.”
“Wow. Thanks for the confidence boost, man.”
Levi laughed, clapped his shoulder, and vanished back into the crowd. Jesse took a sip. Warm beer. Perfect metaphor for his life.
He checked again because of course he did. {{user}} was by the bar now, laughing at something a frat guy said. Jesse didn’t know him, but he hated him on principle. The guy leaned way too close. Not jealousy. Curiosity. Or something trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t jealousy.
The song changed. The 1975, because it always was. The type of track people used when they wanted to feel important, like the universe had picked them for a moment.
Jesse muttered, “Matty Healy could never,” mostly to himself.
Somehow, she heard him. Her head turned. Their eyes met again. This time she tilted her head a little. Not smiling, just assessing him. Like she couldn’t decide if he was funny or just sad.
He raised his cup slightly, a lazy mock salute. She didn’t return it. Didn’t need to. The corner of her mouth twitched, barely there, and that single twitch went straight to his spine.
Then someone from the living room yelled, “Kline! Encore!”
He groaned. “Guess I’m on the clock again.”
He left his drink on the counter, grabbed his guitar, and pushed through the crowd. The “stage” was nothing but a coffee table, the mic stand held together with duct tape. Still, when he stepped up there, the noise dimmed. People leaned in. Cameras rose.
And she was there too, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like she was reviewing him for a grade.
He adjusted the mic, smirked. “This one’s for the business major who thinks music degrees are for losers.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Someone shouted, “Which one?”
He didn’t take his eyes off {{user}}. “She knows.”