The music inside was way too loud. The kind of loud that rattled the floor and made people pretend they could still hear what their friends were saying. Jesse Mercer had been leaning against the wall, half-listening to his idiot friends argue about something stupid, when his eyes landed on you.

You were outside, away from the noise, the flashing lights, and the suffocating heat of too many bodies packed into one house. He watched as you leaned against the railing of the porch, the glow of a streetlamp catching the edge of your face.

Jesse exhaled sharply, his hand softly squeezing the plastic cup he was holding. Alright, dude. Enough being a pussy. He had spent the past two weeks acting like he didn’t care whenever you were around, trying to play it cool in front of his friends—leaning on lockers, pretending to be deep in conversation, flipping his lighter open and closed like some tough guy in a movie.

But right now, there were no friends to save him. No audience. No excuse.

He pushed himself off the wall, muttering, "Fuck it," under his breath before making his way outside. His boots scuffed against the wooden porch as he stepped closer, but then his brain started screaming.

Okay. What now?

He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, shifting his weight. Looked away. Looked back. Then, instead of something cool, his mouth decided to say:

"Yo. You, uh… avoiding the party too?"

Smooth. Real smooth.

He wanted to smack himself, but instead, he just cleared his throat and leaned against the railing next to you—trying way too hard to look casual, but his fingers were drumming against his leg like he was about to short-circuit.

Would you answer him? Would you laugh in his face? Maybe tell him to get lost?

He had no idea. But hell… he was here now. No turning back.