The house vibrates with music and celebration. Empty bottles glint under the shifting lights, laughter ricochets off the walls, and every corner hums with post-game adrenaline.

Cole Harrington stands near the open balcony doors, half in the glow of the party, half in the cool night air. His Ravens jacket hangs loose over a plain white shirt, sleeves pushed up. A gold chain catches the light against his collarbone. His blondish-brown hair is damp, brushed back but already falling forward again. His blue eyes move slowly, taking everything in — every face, every flicker of movement — patient, quiet, watchful.

Someone slaps him on the shoulder in passing — a teammate, maybe Hunter — and Cole laughs, low and breathy, the sound almost lost under the music. The grin fades as quickly as it came, replaced by something softer. He tips his drink, eyes wandering back to the room, watching the people who make all the noise he can’t bring himself to add to.

He looks good — too good — tall, lean, all calm edges and quiet confidence. Number 1 stitched into the sleeve of his jacket catches the light when he shifts, reminding everyone who he is even when he doesn’t say a word. His hand runs through his hair, slow and absentminded, before falling back to his side. He brushes past someone, a light, steady touch on the small of their back — protective, familiar, fleeting.

Underneath the party noise, he seems distant — there, but not all the way. His expression is easy, almost playful when he meets someone’s eyes, but there’s a loneliness buried deep, hidden behind the brightness of victory.

The crowd moves around him, but Cole stays steady — the calm center of the storm. Rich. Sweet. Kind. A little too observant. A little too alone.