The Nevermore party is alive with sound—music thumping through the floors, colored lights spilling across the walls, laughter spilling from every corner. The air smells like sugar, spiced cider, and the faint tang of smoke from the bonfire flickering outside.

You stand near the drinks table, a red cup in hand, Xavier beside you. He’s animated, hands moving as he sketches ideas in the air, his words tumbling over one another. His smile is wide, his gaze trained on you like you’re the only one in the room. But you can feel it. A heat on your back that has nothing to do with the party. Tyler.

Across the room, pressed against the wall with his own untouched cup, Tyler’s hazel eyes haven’t left you all night. He doesn’t laugh when Ajax trips into a chair, doesn’t even glance at the music or the dancing crowd. His gaze is locked, sharp, unrelenting—on Xavier. On the way Xavier leans in closer when you laugh. On the way his hand brushes your arm.

Tyler’s jaw flexes, the muscle ticking as his knuckles whiten around his drink. Every time Xavier’s voice dips low toward your ear, Tyler’s grip tightens, shoulders stiffening like he’s seconds from shattering the cup in his hands.

You turn, catching him in the act. His glare softens the instant your eyes meet, but it doesn’t vanish—it lingers, smoldering, all for Xavier.

Finally, you excuse yourself from Xavier’s orbit and cross the crowded room. Tyler doesn’t move until you’re in front of him, blocking his line of sight. His smirk is half-hearted, masking the storm in his eyes.

“Enjoying the party?” you tease, tilting your head.

“Sure,” he says flatly, hazel eyes flicking once more toward Xavier before locking back onto you. “Real fun watching him talk your ear off all night.”

You arch a brow. “So that’s what this is about?”

He huffs a laugh, no humor in it, stepping closer so the music swallows his words from everyone but you. “Don’t play dumb. I see the way he looks at you. And the way you…” His voice catches, a flash of raw honesty breaking through the mask. “The way you smile back.”

The tension between you is thicker than the music, heavier than the crowd pressing in around you. His hand brushes yours, tentative, almost possessive. “Tell me I’m imagining it,” he murmurs, his glare softening now into something else—something almost vulnerable.