The air inside the party house was a mess of contradictions—hot, cramped, over-perfumed, sticky with spilled drinks and humidity clinging to skin. Bass rolled through the walls in steady waves, rattling glassware and stirring that low, guttural thump in the chest that made it hard to think. Light strobed in seizure-jerk flashes—greens, purples, whites—hitting every glossy surface and sweat-slicked body, making the room look smeared and overexposed. The laughter was loud, the shouting louder, and beneath it all was the sharp synthetic reek of too much candy, plastic streamers, and something fried and burnt that nobody seemed to take credit for.

She stood out like she was built to be noticed—soft in all the places that made people stare too long, smiling too sweetly for her own good, her voice high and flirt-warm, unintentionally baiting every desperate hanger-on that filtered too close. Hands grazed her arms, compliments slurred in her ear, eyes crawling across her like they were owed something. Most of them had no idea what they were playing with. And the ones who did? They lingered longer. Pest watched them all from the back corner of the room, lit by a dim flicker from a busted LED strip, his cap pulled low, red eyes narrowed. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t even pretending to enjoy himself. His jaw flexed. Mandibles gave a small twitch.

Poob was nowhere near still. At some point, they’d cannonballed out of a balloon pit and done a full-body slide across the table where the cake used to be. Now they were bouncing from guest to guest, jacket flaring, voice too loud, cheeks puffed and pink from sugar and movement. But every time they saw her laugh with someone who wasn’t them, there was a pause—tiny, almost invisible. Not long. Not enough for most to notice. But Pest noticed. And after the third guy reached out to tuck something behind her ear, Pest finally moved. He cut through the party with precise, unfriendly purpose, pushing past sticky shoulders and elbows without apology. Poob’s head snapped toward him like a balloon popped nearby. They blinked, saw where he was going, and zipped after him, voice cutting over the crowd—too cheerful, but shaking with some unspoken urgency.

They reached her at almost the same time. She turned—still beaming, breathless, caught in some flirty back-and-forth with a couple of guys who suddenly weren’t smiling anymore. Pest didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hand came up, sharp and certain, palm grazing her lower back just long enough to pull her against him. She shifted, instinctively, as if her body already knew who he was. His other arm slid around her waist—not possessive, but firm, sealing off access. Poob was already in front of her, pressing in close, their hands everywhere but nowhere inappropriate. One gripped the edge of her sleeve, tugging it down just slightly. The other brushed back her hair and flicked the party hat of some stranger who got too close.