the party hums around you, a mess of pulsing lights and tangled bodies, but rachel is the only thing in focus. she’s draped across your lap, golden and untouchable, her laughter cutting through the noise like a spark in the dark.

“hey,” she drawls, slipping off your lap and pulling you up with her in one fluid motion. her fingers tighten around yours, grounding, electric. “this is lame. we’re at a party, aren’t we? so let’s fucking party.”

you barely register where she’s leading you, too caught up in her energy, in the way she glows under the floodlights. it’s not until her steps slow that the room sharpens into something colder.

“rachel. you made it.”

nathan prescott.

he’s sprawled across the couch, a smirk curling at his lips, a baggie of white powder glinting between his fingers. his gaze flickers from rachel to you, lingering on your joined hands. that smirk falters—just for a second—before twisting into something sharper.

rachel doesn’t notice. or maybe she doesn’t care. she grins. “hey, you.”

and then you’re sinking onto the couch, wedged between them, pulse hammering.