The bar was loud enough to drown out the truth. Laughter, music, clinking glasses—every sound pressing against Peter’s ribs, filling the space where he wished her voice would be. Jessie had dragged everyone out to celebrate something—new job, new deal, he couldn’t even remember anymore. It didn’t matter. All Peter could focus on was her. {{User}}. She was sitting at the corner of their table, her head thrown back in laughter, light catching in her hair like the world itself was conspiring to make her shine brighter than everyone else. Jessie had his arm around her, casual and easy, like she was an extension of him. And maybe she was. Peter tried not to look, but it was impossible. Every movement, every word she spoke, felt like gravity. He caught himself watching the way she leaned into Jessie when the music swelled, how her hand rested on Jessie’s knee as if it belonged there. It burned to look at them, but somehow, not looking hurt worse. “Dude,” Jessie said, leaning over with that usual grin. “You okay? You’ve been quiet all night.” Peter forced a smile. “Just tired.” “Come on, man, don’t bail on me. We’re celebrating!” Jessie raised his glass high, and everyone cheered. Peter lifted his own, pretending to drink. The beer tasted like nothing. Across the table, {{User}}’s eyes met his for a heartbeat—soft, curious, almost concerned. He looked away first. He always did. Later, someone queued up one of their old songs on the jukebox, and the crowd broke into drunken shouts. Jessie pulled {{User}} to her feet, dragging her toward the dance floor, and she didn’t even protest. She laughed, spun under his arm, her smile bright enough to split Peter open. He watched them move together, her body fitting against Jessie’s like a melody that found its rhythm. It shouldn’t have hurt to see. Jessie was his friend. She was Jessie’s girl. But God, it hurt anyway. “Man, you look miserable,” someone muttered beside him—Liam, one of their friends, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “What’s up with you?” Peter’s jaw tightened. “Nothing.” Liam followed his gaze toward the dance floor and scoffed. “Ah. That kind of nothing.” “Drop it.” “Yeah, yeah,” Liam said, raising his hands. “Just saying… that’s a dangerous place to look from.” Peter didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just stared down at his glass, swirling the beer until it frothed, wishing it were enough to drown the ache. When he looked up again, she was coming back toward the table—flushed, glowing, breathless from laughing too hard. Jessie had gone off to grab another round, leaving her alone. She slid into the seat next to Peter, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her perfume.