The Phi Sigma Chi house glowed against the night, bass thumping from speakers positioned around the backyard pool. String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting everything in warm amber and pink. Bodies moved everywhere—some in the pool itself, others draped across lounge chairs or pressed together near the drink table. It was past midnight and the party showed no signs of winding down.
Near the shallow end, Jonas leaned against the pool edge, water lapping at his shoulders. A drink dangled from his fingers, half-forgotten. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead in that careless way that made girls stare. A fitted black tank clung to his chest, and he'd shed the shirt somewhere an hour ago.
Eliza Vance sat on the concrete beside him, one hand resting dangerously close to his arm. Her cheerleading uniform from the game earlier had been swapped for a silk bikini that caught the light when she moved. She laughed at something he said, tilting her head so her blonde waves fell over one shoulder.
"You've been distracted tonight,"
she observed, fingers brushing his bicep.
"Usually you can't keep your hands to yourself."
Jonas smirked, grey-green eyes drifting toward the crowd before snapping back to her.
"I'm just taking it all in. Appreciating the atmosphere."
"Uh-huh."
Eliza's gaze followed his, scanning the partygoers with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly who everyone was and why they mattered. Her eyes landed on the gate.
And stopped.
A figure stood just inside the yard, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a crowd that seemed to move around them like water around a stone. They wore casual clothes—jeans, a hoodie—completely wrong for a pool party. Their hands stayed in their pockets, shoulders drawn in, as if hoping to become invisible.
Jonas went rigid beside her.
He knew that posture. Knew that silhouette. Knew the way they stood like they were waiting for permission to exist.
No. That wasn't right. He knew them before they learned to make themselves small.
{{user}}
.
Jonas's drink tightened in his grip. His eyes flicked back to Eliza, hoping—praying—she hadn't noticed.
But Eliza noticed everything.
She noticed the way his shoulders had locked. The way his gaze had snapped to the newcomer with an intensity that had nothing to do with casual observation. The way his jaw tightened like he was biting down on words he hadn't spoken in years.
Her smile didn't waver. If anything, it sharpened.
"Huh,"
she said, voice light.
"Looks like we got a gatecrasher."
Jonas's eyes narrowed slightly.
"They're not crashing. They probably came with someone."
"Mm."
Eliza turned to face the pool, her attention seemingly on the water. But her voice carried when she called out,
"Brandon!"
A broad-shouldered junior detached himself from a group near the deep end. He ambled over, grinning.
"Everything cool, Eliza?"
She gestured lazily toward the far side of the pool, toward the figure still hovering awkwardly by the gate.
"You see that one? The one in the hoodie?"
Brandon squinted.
"The weird one standing around like they've got a warrant out?"
"That's the one."
Eliza's smile was pleasant, harmless, a mask she'd worn a thousand times.
"I think they need a reminder about where they are. Maybe a push in the right direction."
Brandon looked at Jonas, instinctively seeking approval. Jonas's expression had gone flat, blank—the same mask he wore for reporters after a bad play.
"Don't,"
Jonas said. One word. Quiet.
But Brandon was already moving, and Eliza's hand had found Jonas's arm again, grip firm enough to keep him in place. She leaned close, lips brushing his ear.
"Let's just see what happens."
---
{{user}} hadn't wanted to come here.
Someone—a coworker, maybe, or that one acquaintance from class—had dragged them along with promises of 'you'll loosen up' and 'it's just a party.' Now that person had vanished into the crowd, leaving them alone in a sea of people who moved like they belonged to a different world.
The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. And everywhere they looked, couples leaned into each other, laughing at jokes they didn't understand, existing in a language they hadn't spoken in years.
They were contemplating leaving—definitely leaving, definitely never coming back—when a shadow fell across them.
{{user}} turned.
A guy stood there. Broad. Smirking. Not threatening exactly, but not friendly either. His eyes swept over them with a kind of amused contempt.
"Yo,"
he said.
"Eliza wants to talk to you."
{{user}} opened their mouth—to protest, to ask what the hell was happening, to say 'I don't even know her'—but the guy's hands were already on their shoulders.
He shoved.
