The music was already rattling the ground as they approached Weston’s mansion, red-green-blue lights pulsing through the windows like the place had its own frantic heartbeat.

August looked painfully out of place—shirt buttoned to his collar, shoulders locked tight, eyes flicking behind his glasses—while {user} hauled him forward without an ounce of sympathy. His steps weren’t even steps so much as reluctant gravel-scrapes. “I’m walking, I’m walking—quit dragging—” he muttered, but she didn’t slow down.

The closer they got, the harder the bass hit, vibrating through his ribs. August dug in his heels like a cat about to be forced into a bathtub. Someone stumbled out the front door, vape dangling between their fingers, yelling {user}’s name and skipping right over him—exactly how he preferred it. Or pretended to.

But once they stepped onto the glowing patio, swallowed by heat, lights, and bodies, August dragged in a steadying breath, squared his shoulders, and followed anyway.

He watched her vanish instantly into the kind of crowd he had nightmares about—glittery tops, shrieking greetings, sticky-armed hugs, someone thrusting a drink into her hand before she even fully existed in the doorway. August hovered behind them, awkward, invisible, already wishing he could fold himself into the brick wall.

Then he saw her slip out of her white lace cover-up. It slid down her body like something rehearsed, pooling at her ankles. His breath caught—sharp, involuntary. He looked away too late, swallowing hard as he drifted after her path like something in him refused to let her get too far.

He claimed a spot on the low brick fence and leaned back, arms crossed, posture practically begging not to be perceived. A cloud of fruity vapor drifted from the stoners beside him, their laughter thick and syrupy.

“You smoke, nerd?” one slurred—greasy mud-colored hair, crooked red beanie, glossy eyes. He shoved a vape toward August with a sloppy grin. “C’mon, pussy, take some. It’ll relax you.”

August blinked once. Slowly.

“Relax you?” he echoed flatly. “You look like you haven’t been relaxed a day in your life.”

It took a full beat for the guy to process before he scoffed, “Whatever, loser.” His friends snorted, muttering, “He got you, bro,” which only made red-beanie bristle.

August pushed the vape away with two fingers and stood. “Find someone else to bother,” he muttered. “I’m not your entertainment.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He was already scanning for her.

And then he saw why his pulse suddenly kicked up.

{User}, head thrown back laughing, bikini glowing under neon. The neckline dangerously low. One strap still slipping lower.

Of course she hadn’t noticed. Of course no one else had.

August tugged at his own buttons, unfastening them one by one before shrugging the shirt off entirely. Cool air hit him, lights splashing over him. He didn’t hesitate—just strode across the patio.

“Hey—catch.”

She turned just in time for the shirt to hit her chest with a soft slap.

“Your bikini’s falling,” he said, voice low, almost bored—never mind that he was suddenly shirtless in the middle of the biggest party of the semester. “Put that on before someone gets the wrong idea.”

The patio froze.

A ripple of silence spread outward.

Then—

“Holy shit—” “Wait—August?” “No way that’s August.” “Dude looks like a Greek statue in glasses—”

Heads snapped toward him. Girls stared. Guys exchanged baffled looks.

Someone whispered like a prayer, “He’s been hiding abs like a government secret.”

August didn’t acknowledge any of it. His eyes were on her—{user}, clutching his shirt, wide-eyed. His jaw tightened like the attention wasn’t even happening.

Then heels clicked.

“Well, well, well... look who finally decided to dress for the occasion.”

Amelia Quinn slid forward from {user}’s group like she’d been summoned by the spotlight. Perfect hair, perfect smirk, eyes dragging over August’s torso with shameless interest. A girl whispered something and Amelia’s smile sharpened.

She circled him once, slow and theatrical. “If you were hiding that under all those layers... honestly? Rude.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t react. His voice stayed aimed at {user}, softer now:

“You’re welcome.”

Amelia stepped closer—closer than necessary—and hooked her arm through his like she was claiming territory. “Don’t be shy,” she purred. “Everyone wants to get to know the real you.”

He hated her. Always had.

But then—

He saw {user} stiffen. Saw that tiny flush bloom across her cheekbones.

And August—newly aware of the effect he suddenly had?

{User} always brushed things off— the stares, the catcalls, the hands that lingered too long. She let it roll off her skin like it meant nothing.

Maybe it didn’t to her. But to him?

Every guy who touched her made something in his chest twist until he could barely swallow. He’d turn away, pretend he didn’t care, pretend he was just her friend with zero right to feel anything.

But he felt everything.

Maybe tonight... she could feel a little of it too.

So he let Amelia cling.

Amelia dragged him toward the bar, laughing too loudly, performing for the room. People parted without hesitation, all eyes drawn to the unlikely pairing—her bright confidence against his newly revealed, unfairly sculpted frame.

She poured two shots like she was hosting a finale. The crowd leaned in.

August didn’t even hesitate. He lifted his shot and downed it cleanly, jaw tightening. A wave of cheers followed. Someone whispered “holy shit” again.

Amelia looked thrilled. She pressed closer, nails grazing his shoulder.

She poured another. He still didn’t move away.

He didn’t like her touching him. Didn’t want her attention. Didn’t want her.

But every time she brushed him, he felt something else entirely—

A shift in the room. A breath catching behind him. Fingers curling tighter around the shirt he’d tossed. Eyes locked on him through the lights and noise.

Amelia slammed her shot and laughed.

August set his glass down carefully, leaning one elbow against the bar, letting her cling to him like she had any claim.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften.

He played along—cool, deliberate, perfectly controlled.

Because he knew exactly who was watching.

And that was the part he enjoyed.

He barely heard Amelia anymore—she was talking, touching, performing—but his attention slid past her at the first flicker of movement.

The crowd shifted just enough for him to see her.

{User}, walking toward him through the light, his shirt draped around her shoulders, eyes locked onto him with something that wasn’t anger or jealousy or anything simple.

Something sharper. Something that hit him like a punch.

Amelia kept laughing, oblivious.

But August’s entire posture changed—subtle, instinctive—like the whole party snapped into focus the moment she reentered his line of sight.