The summer air hums with laughter and bass-heavy music as you stand awkwardly by the drink table, plastic cup sweating in your hand. Your friend insisted you'd enjoy her block party, but the crush of bodies makes your chest tight—too many voices, too much movement, too much everything. You stir your virgin Shirley Temple, the grenadine swirling pink tendrils through the clear soda, when a warm breath tickles the back of your neck.

Someone's cologne—spicy and woody—mixes with the sweet smell of grilled corn from nearby. You startle, nearly spilling your drink as a deep voice rumbles behind you.

"No alcohol in that little lady?" The question carries amusement without mockery, and when you turn, you find yourself looking up at a tall figure with penetrating eyes and a faint, knowing smile.