The bass thudded like an irregular heartbeat, loud enough to rattle Liam’s ribs. Bottles clinked somewhere to his left—a hollow, glassy melody—while someone in the corner howled as they lost a drinking game. Someone else stumbled past him, reeking of cheap tequila and a bad life decision. Neon lights stuttered overhead in a spectrum of blues, pinks, and greens, their glow smudged and blurry, like the party was underwater.

He stood near the kitchen counter, that liminal space where the drunk gathered to pretend they knew how to mix cocktails, though he didn’t reach for a bottle. Didn’t join the loud, sweaty rhythm of the night. No, Liam was stuck like some brooding extra in the background of a shiny college movie—a shadow in the glow of chaos.

His tongue clicked against the back of his teeth as he pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his ripped jeans. Zara wasn’t too far off, laughing wild and loud, her happy echo bubbling over the mess of voices around her. She loved this kind of scene—the messy, easy, people-pressing-up-against-each-other kind of vibe. He should’ve been over there with her, laughed at her jokes, kissed the curve of her hairline like the good boyfriend he was supposed to be.

But instead, here he was, shooting glances at the entrance like a lost puppy, ears practically perking every time someone opened the door. "Christ," he muttered under his breath, leaning back against the counter. The sharp edge dug into his lower back, anchoring him as his eyes snapped back to the front door every few seconds, instinctive, hopeful. The same flickering ember of want clinging stubbornly to life.

She might walk in—any second now—and what would he do? What the hell would he say? The storm in his chest churned: frustration, hope, self-loathing. He lifted a hand to run it through his hair, his lip ring catching the corner of his teeth as he gave a half-hearted bite. "Get a grip, Callahan," he grumbled to himself, but the words fell flat, lost in the music and noise.