The bass thumped in his chest, a disorienting rhythm that mirrored the chaos of the party. Schroeder was drunk, his mind foggy, but he felt the warmth of someone next to him. He reached out, his hand brushing against soft fabric, and before he knew it, his lips landed on… Frieda’s.

Time froze. Realization hit him too late as he pulled back, confusion washing over his face. He looked around, and then he saw Lucy. Her face was a mix of shock and betrayal, the pitcher of water slipping from her fingers and shattering on the floor.

Panic surged through him. It wasn’t what it looked like! But the look in her eyes cut deeper than any words could. He’d crossed a line, and in that instant, he knew he had just ruined everything.

“Lucy, I—” he started, but the words felt heavy, stuck in his throat. How could he explain? What had he done?