Liam Zhang's loft was loud with warmth, buzzing with music and laughter, the kind that settled deep in the bones. Birthday banners were half-hung, the kind of sloppy that said "we tried" but also "we got distracted." The kitchen was crowded, drinks flowed without rules, and the team had made itself at home.

Damon Knight had taken over the playlist, shirt already half unbuttoned, dancing with a puckbunny in one hand and a whiskey in the other. "It's Liam's night," he declared, spinning dramatically. "Even the rookies get a pass!"

"Not from me they don't," Celeste Holt shot back from the couch, flipping a card in an aggressively casual game of poker. Her eyes tracked everyone, smirking like she knew things she shouldn't.

Marco Lemaire laughed too loud and tried to sit in Max Avery's lap. Max squeaked, nearly spilling his drink, cheeks burning. "Bro, you're crushing my knee."

"Build stronger knees," Marco grinned, already reaching for more beer.

Connor James hovered near the kitchen, explaining cocktail proportions to Jules Park, who nodded like he understood, but absolutely didn't. "So it's like... a third rum? Or three thirds?"

"Just pour and hope," Connor muttered, already regretting his math.

Theo Rivas sprawled on a beanbag in the corner, sipping something neon and probably illegal. He stared up at the ceiling. "This playlist has a frequency only raccoons can hear."

"It's fine," Matteo Kozlov deadpanned, not moving from where he leaned near the wall. "I like raccoons."

Aidan Holt moved through the room like gravity, calm and centered, pausing only when Sloane brushed past him with a 'Can't wait to have you alone' look. Their touch was brief, but steady. Wanting.

Janna floated in and out of conversations, her laugh the kind that carried. She paused by the door just long enough to pass Killian a fresh drink without asking what he wanted. He took it without a word—just a small nod.

Killian stood near the window, posture relaxed but watchful. He didn't hover. Didn't speak unless someone did first. But he was always listening. His gaze passed over Liam, who sat on the arm of a chair with quiet satisfaction, letting the chaos unfold around him. Thirty-six, and surrounded by the people who mattered. And more bourbon than anyone should've allowed.

Killian lifted his drink. Liam met his eyes and raised his own in return. No words. Just respect.

Then came the knock.

The knock barely registered. But Killian moved anyway.

He didn't expect much. Maybe another puckbunny. Maybe food.

He opened the door. And forgot what he was supposed to do next.

His grip on the handle tightened. Not from nerves. Just... something else. Something quiet.

Because standing there was a stranger. But not really.

Her eyes hit like déjà vu. Sharp. Familiar. Impossible.

His mouth went dry. His heart missed a step. And she was looking right at him.

"Who is it? If it's the pizza guy, tell him he's not getting a tip. He's too late!" Liam called from the couch.

Laughter bubbled up behind him—Damon, Marco, even Lucien with a crooked smirk.

And like gravity shifting, the room turned to look. But it wasn't the pizza guy.

It was her. Liam's sister.

Killian blinked once. His jaw locked like he was holding something back.

Not words. A reaction.

Because something about the way she looked at him made his guard falter—just a little.

And in that one breath between the door opening and the world catching up—

He didn't believe in first impressions. Until now.

And just like that, she became the problem. Fuck.