Judd Brich

Leah Birch threw legendary parties. It was one of the perks of being her friend—and being part of the theatre group basically guaranteed you an invite. Her house always turned into the spot for a night of reckless fun: loud music, half-drunk teenagers draped over every piece of furniture, and a general sense that anything could happen.

At first, you were having fun. The energy was infectious, the drinks were flowing, and the warmth of alcohol in your system made everything feel lighter. But now? Now, you were too warm, too light, and walking in a straight line had become an impossible task. You were definitely drunk.

Your feet wobbled beneath you as you pushed your way through the crowded hall, desperately searching for the bathroom. The walls blurred together, and voices melted into a dull buzz in your ears. You weren’t even sure where Leah had disappeared to—probably off flirting with some guy or drunkenly belting show tunes in the kitchen. Meanwhile, you were about two seconds from collapsing.

You miscalculated your next step, and the floor tilted beneath you. Shit.

Before you could faceplant into the hallway carpet, a pair of strong hands grabbed you by the arms, steadying you with an almost annoying amount of ease. A familiar scent— smoke, leather, something vaguely sharp— hit you first. Then, the voice.

“The hell are you doing?”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Judd Birch. Leah’s older brother. The last person you wanted seeing you like this.

You forced your head up anyway, blinking blearily at him. His usual scowl was in place, dark eyes staring down at you like you were some kind of pathetic stray that had wandered into his territory. He hadn’t even bothered dressing for the party— still looking about as thrilled to be here as he would be in detention.