The bass thrums through the floorboards, steady and dizzying, lights flashing like a heartbeat that’s not yours. You shouldn’t be here. Too many people, too much noise, the air thick with sweat and cheap perfume. Someone hands you a drink you don’t want, another laugh too close to your ear. You catch a glimpse of him across the room—your brother’s best friend, the one who always seems to take up too much space without trying. Jace.

He’s leaning against the wall, a drink dangling from his fingers, grin lazy, eyes half-lidded. For a moment he doesn’t see you. Then he does, and the grin fades just enough to mean something. You look away first.

A boy you barely know starts talking to you, leaning in, shouting over the music. You nod, mostly out of politeness, but Jace is already moving. You feel him before you see him, the shift in the air, the sudden shadow behind you.

“What’re you doing?”

His voice is low, sharp under the noise. The boy steps back, confused, muttering something before disappearing into the crowd. Jace doesn’t follow him. He just looks at you, jaw tight, hand flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He leans in close enough that the heat of his skin cuts through the chaos.

“You shouldn’t let guys like that talk to you.”

The words aren’t loud, but they hit harder than the music. You don’t move. His breath brushes your cheek. The room spins slower for a second—then someone calls his name, and he doesn’t look away.