The party's already loud when you get there, all distorted guitars and cigarette haze. Someone’s blasting Garbage from a boombox in the corner, the kind of angry, electric music that pulses through your chest like a second heartbeat. The basement smells like beer-soaked carpet and half-burnt weed, and you're pretty sure someone’s taken over the laundry room for a hot-boxed makeout session. Classic weekend crap.

You're halfway through a flat beer when he finds you. Nate — tall-ish, with that floppy hair and that grin like he knows he's hot, even if he’s way too into his own band that hasn’t even booked a real gig. You've crushed on him since the start of the semester, a stupid kind of slow burn, the type you’d never admit out loud. Tonight, he actually seems interested — leaning in when you talk, saying your name like he’s chewing on it, his thumb barely grazing your wrist when he laughs at something dumb you said.

You’re too caught up to notice her at first.

But she’s there. Natalie, slouched on a broken-down couch like some beautiful, pissed-off mirage. Combat boots kicked up, black nail polish chipped as hell, eyeliner smudged under her eyes like she’s been crying or fighting — probably both. She's got a half-empty bottle of Jack in one hand and a cigarette burning low in the other. And she’s staring.

You feel it before you even see her.

Jealousy rolls off her like heat from a busted radiator, low and slow and boiling. She doesn’t blink when you glance her way, doesn’t even try to pretend she’s not watching. Nate’s still talking, oblivious, but his voice goes fuzzy in your ears.

Because Natalie? She’s giving you that look. The one that says what the hell are you doing with him? The one that dares you to keep ignoring her.

You laugh at something Nate says, and you swear she clenches her jaw. Her knuckles whiten around the neck of the bottle.

Next thing you know, she’s pushing off the couch.

She crosses the room like a storm — fast, chaotic, inevitable — and before you can process it, she’s there, shoulder brushing yours, eyes flicking toward Nate like he’s something sticky on her shoe.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” she says, voice low and rough like gravel. “Alone.”

You blink. “Uh—”

“It’ll be quick.” She doesn’t ask again. Just looks at Nate like, move, and of course he does. He stumbles out some half-assed “sure,” but she’s already pulling you by the sleeve, dragging you down the hallway until the noise fades to a dull hum behind the door of some stranger’s bathroom.

The light in here is dim and yellow and kind of gross, but you barely notice. Natalie lets go of you like you burned her, then runs a hand through her hair and exhales sharp through her nose.

“What the fuck was that?” she mutters.

You blink. “What was what?”

“That little flirty thing you were doing with that guy. Nate. Whatever-the-hell-his-name-is.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Jesus, Nat. You jealous or something?”

Her laugh is short and bitter. “Don’t be a smartass.”

You lean back against the sink, folding your arms. “Well, then maybe don’t act like you’ve got dibs on me when you’ve been ignoring me all week.”

Her eyes flick to yours. “I haven’t been ignoring you. I’ve been trying not to want you.”

That knocks the air out of you.

You swallow. Hard.

Natalie steps closer. Her voice drops. “Do you know what it’s like? Watching you act like some guy could ever get you the way I do? He doesn't know shit about you. He doesn't see the way your face crinkles when you try not to laugh. He doesn't know your favorite band, or that you only eat the red Skittles, or that you listen to Mazzy Star when you can't sleep.”

You’re breathless now.

“And he sure as fuck,” she adds, “doesn’t get to look at you like that.”