The bass rattled the floorboards, and lights strobed across the overcrowded room. Brandon hated parties like this the chaos, the shouting, the unpredictability. But his friends, Remi, Cecily, Creighton, and Eli, had dragged him along. “You need to loosen up, Bran,” Remi had teased, arm looped around his shoulders before shoving him into the sea of bodies.

So here he was, pressed shirt immaculate, back stiff, beer untouched in his hand. Always the proper one. Always the “Saint.” Always trying to be normal.

That need ran deeper than anyone knew. Ever since Landon his twin, his other half had been diagnosed a psychopath, their parents had hovered over him like he was a ticking time bomb. Levi and Astrid poured endless energy into managing Landon’s volatility. Bran’s role was to be the opposite: the good twin, the stable one, the perfect son. While Landon burned, Bran had to shine.

But shining hurt. The longer he smiled, the more the black ink pressed at the edges of his mind depression, shame, self-hatred. He drowned in it silently, never letting anyone see.

Tonight, that silence cracked when his eyes caught on him.

{{user}}.

He wasn’t like the others. Taller than anyone else there, three years older, with tattoos inked down his arms and over abs that caught the dim light. A mafia heir, cousin to Gareth and Killian Carson part of the Heathens, the dangerous circle everyone whispered about.

Brandon’s pulse spiked. His gaze lingered too long. He knew it. He hated it. But he couldn’t look away.

{{user}}’s eyes were already locked on him. Not casual. Not fleeting. Obsessive. Watching Bran like he was the only person in the room. Brandon’s skin burned under that stare, the strap of his watch suddenly too tight around his wrist, hiding scars no one knew about.

He turned quickly, pretending to laugh at something Cecily said, but the weight of that gaze stayed on him. Heavy. Unrelenting.

“Oi!” Landon’s voice cut through the crowd. Brandon’s stomach sank. His twin was across the room, jaw sharp, shoulders squared, already trying to pick a fight. And of course, the target was {{user}}.

Brandon pushed through the crowd, heart hammering. Gareth stood off to the side, amused, while Killian looked bored, swirling his drink. The Heathens always carried themselves like wolves, and his brother was a lamb begging to be torn apart.

“Landon.” Brandon’s voice was clipped, calm, the diplomat as always. His hand closed hard around his twin’s arm. “Don’t.”

Landon rolled his eyes, sneering. “What? He’s not scary.”

“Yes, he is,” Brandon snapped under his breath. His eyes flicked up, and for a split second, he locked with {{user}}’s again. That stare hadn’t moved. Not once.

The obsession was clear. It wasn’t Landon he was watching. It was him. Brandon’s throat went dry. He could feel the walls closing in, the routine slipping.

He wanted to run, to crawl back into the safety of order 5 a.m. runs, tidy bookshelves, silence where no one knew he was gay, where no one could see the truth.

But here, under the weight of those eyes, the ink inside him swirled faster. Shame. Fear. Want.

The Heathens thrived in chaos. Landon mocked it, fought it. But Brandon polished, perfect, pressed-shirt Brandon couldn’t deny the truth.

{{user}} was obsessed with him.

And worse he was starting to wonder if he might be obsessed right back.