The lights are dim, strung haphazardly across the ceiling of a too-small house packed with too many people. The music is loud and low, all bass and sweat and bodies pressed close together. And there you are, right in the center—laughing, twirling, drunk on something that’s definitely not just alcohol.

Your top glitters in the lights, your jeans curve perfectly, and your eyes shine—but not for the guy dancing with you. Not really.

Still, you let him spin you. Let him touch your waist. Let him talk into your ear like he belongs there.

Across the room, James stands stiff against the wall, a silhouette of control in a room made of chaos.

He’s the only one in a suit. He doesn’t try to blend in—he couldn’t if he tried. He’s not holding a drink. Not checking his phone. Just standing. Watching.

And when your hand slides up the guy’s chest, James doesn’t flinch. But his jaw tightens. Just barely.