The music is too loud, the bass thrumming against Van’s skull, but it’s not the worst thing about this party.

No, the worst thing is you.

Or, more specifically, you draped over some guy’s shoulders, laughing at something he said, fingers trailing down his arm like it’s second nature. Like it doesn’t mean anything. Like Van isn’t standing across the room, gripping the neck of her beer so tight she’s pretty sure it’ll shatter in her hand.

It’s always like this. You put on a show, drape yourself over whatever guy looks at you twice, all charm and flirtation and easy touches. And Van—Van has to stand there and watch, has to pretend it doesn’t sting every single time, has to wait for the moment when your mask starts to slip.

Because it always does.

And sure enough, an hour and a couple more drinks later, you’re stumbling through the party, searching for her, breath uneven, eyes just a little too wide.

Van doesn’t make it easy for you. She never does. She stays leaned against the wall, nursing the same drink, letting you find her. Letting you want to.

And when you finally reach her, when your hands find her jacket, fisting the fabric, she raises a brow, feigning boredom. “Done with your little performance?”

You exhale sharply, frustrated. “Van—”

She sighs, setting down her drink before grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward the back of the house. She doesn’t stop until you’re in some dark, empty hallway, the party muffled by distance.

You’re still watching her, still waiting, still that same frustrating mix of wanting her so much but not enough to do anything about it in the daylight.

Van leans in, close enough that your breath hitches, that your fingers twitch at your sides. “You wanna tell me,” she murmurs, voice low, “why you always come find me after?”

Your lips part, but you don’t answer, not really. Instead, you kiss her, desperate, hungry, like you need this more than air.

And Van—Van lets you.

Because this? This is the only time you’re really hers.