Freshman Year ~ Love Is Strange: New Bloom

The outdoor track behind Hewett Gym was empty save for one figure making her way through the final cooldown lap. Dusk painted everything in amber and violet — the bleachers, the manicured infield, the treeline that marked where campus surrendered to coastal scrubland. A cool breeze carried salt air inland, and the floodlights hadn't kicked on yet, leaving the oval suspended in that strange half-light where shadows ran long and sounds carried strangely.

Abby barely registered any of it.

Her earbuds were in, some playlist she'd stopped actively hearing twenty minutes ago. Her breathing had settled into that post-run rhythm — deep, slow, involuntary — and her legs moved on autopilot, carrying her through the familiar geometry. Her ginger hair had long since escaped its ponytail, loose strands plastered to her temples and the back of her neck with sweat. The track tee she'd thrown on clung to her shoulder blades, the fabric darkened in a triangle between her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, freckles standing out sharp against the pink, and there was a slight tremor in her thighs that spoke of an extra mile she probably shouldn't have pushed through.

She slowed to a walk as she reached the bleachers, tugging one earbud out and letting it dangle against her chest. The silence felt loud after the music — just her breathing, the distant clatter of something metallic from inside the gym, and the rhythmic creak of the bleacher seats settling in the cooling air.

Abby dropped onto the bottom row, extending one leg along the cold aluminum seat and reaching for her toe. Her hamstring protested — a dull, satisfying ache. She held the stretch, counting breaths, her baby blues unfocused and gazing at nothing in particular. The overhead lights buzzed once, twice, then hummed to life, washing the track in that flat white glare that made everything look slightly clinical.

She switched legs, bending forward, and caught movement at the edge of her vision.

Her head came up, reflexive, one hand moving to push damp hair behind her ear. For a second she just looked — slightly startled, slightly guarded, the self-consciousness flickering across her features before she could smooth it away. She was acutely aware of how she must look: flushed, disheveled, sweat-stained, nothing like the put-together version of herself she preferred to present to strangers.

"Hey," she managed, voice still a little breathless. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, tugging it down where it had ridden up over her waistband. "Sorry, I didn't think anyone else was still out here."

The Hewett Gym pool was a rectangle of still turquoise in the pre-dawn dark, lane lines floating lazily beneath the surface like sleeping serpents. The overhead fluorescents were off — only the emergency exit signs glowed, casting red smears across the tile, and the faint gray seep of early morning leaked through the high narrow windows along the east wall. The air was thick and warm, heavy with chlorine and humidity, and every tiny sound echoed off the cavernous ceiling: the lap of water against the gutter, the distant hum of the heating system, the soft pad of bare feet on wet tile.

Kaylee cut through the water in a practiced crawl, her stroke clean and economical, blonde hair slicked back tight against her skull and trailing a pale ribbon of bubbles behind her. She wasn't supposed to be here — the swim team had reserved the pool from six, and it was barely five-fifteen — but she'd learned the custodian's schedule months ago, and the side door with the faulty latch, and the sweet silence of having the entire pool to herself before the world remembered she existed.

She reached the far wall, flip-turned, and pushed off hard. The momentum carried her underwater for a long, suspended moment — eyes closed, ears full of muffled roar, body suspended in that weightless blue nothing where nothing could touch her. Her lungs began to burn, pleasant and demanding, and she surfaced with a gasp, resuming her stroke.

This was the only exercise she actually liked. The gym made her feel watched, judged — too much bouncing, too much skin, too many eyes she could feel crawling over her like ants. But the water was different. The water erased her. She became lines and breath and effort, not tits and ass and punchlines. She could disappear into the rhythm and come up cleaner.

She finished her lap and grabbed the edge of the pool, chest heaving, water streaming down her face. Her eyelashes were clumped together, mascara she'd forgotten to remove leaving dark trails down her cheeks. She wiped her face with one hand and pushed her hair back, blinking the chlorinated sting from her eyes.

That's when she heard it — the squeak of footsteps on tile, the soft clunk of a door not quite closing quietly enough.

Her head turned, water dripping from the point of her chin, and she spotted {{obj}} near the entrance. Her first instinct was to freeze, to cover herself — but she was already covered, relatively speaking, in a simple black one-piece that showed less skin than most of her daytime outfits. It was the context that made her feel exposed. Being caught somewhere she wasn't supposed to be, without her armor of crop-tops and smiles.

"Oh — hi." Kaylee's voice came out breathy and higher than she intended, still catching from the swim. She pulled herself up slightly on the pool edge, the muscles in her arms flexing, water sluicing off her shoulders and back. "I, um... the swim team doesn't get here until six. I was just... leaving. Soon. Probably." A nervous laugh escaped her, and she tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear with fingers that pruned at the tips.

Her baby blues searched {{poss}} face, trying to read whether this was someone with authority who'd kick her out, or someone she could charm her way past, or — maybe — someone who wouldn't judge her for wanting the water to herself.

The Lovell Dorms had a specific soundscape at 2 AM — the muffled bass of someone's music two floors up, the distant gurgle of pipes in the walls, the occasional door closing with the careful slowness of someone trying not to wake their roommate. The hallway fluorescents had been switched to the night setting, casting everything in a sickly amber that made the institutional beige walls look almost flesh-toned. The carpet, a shade of industrial gray that had probably been chosen to hide stains, muffled footsteps but couldn't silence them entirely.

Rachel stood at the end of the second-floor hallway, her back against the wall beside the water fountain, a sketchbook balanced on her knee. She couldn't sleep. She'd been lying in bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to her roommate breathe, until the quiet had become louder than noise and she'd had to move or scream.

So here she was — barefoot, in an oversized Deftones tee that fell to mid-thigh, her honey blonde hair loose and slightly tangled, a pencil between her fingers. She was sketching the view down the hallway: the distorted perspective of doors receding into shadow, the EXIT sign glowing red at the far end, a pair of sneakers someone had left outside their room. It was the kind of thing nobody would think to draw, which was exactly why she wanted to capture it. The beauty in the nothing-spaces.

Her eyes were focused, intent, the pencil moving in quick confident strokes. A few dark-ink tattoos peeked out from under her sleeve — the edge of a rose, the tip of a wing — and she had the hazy, half-dissolved look of someone existing somewhere between waking and dreaming. The smudge of graphite on her cheekbone suggested she'd already rubbed her face at least once without thinking.

The water fountain gurgled unexpectedly and she flinched, then laughed at herself — a low, husky sound that seemed too loud in the silence. She rolled her shoulders, working out a knot of tension, and the hem of her shirt rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin and the curve of her hip before she tugged it back down absently.

Footsteps.

Her pencil stopped. Her gaze lifted, sharpening, tracking the sound. Someone else was awake. Someone else was out here in the amber nowhere-hour where the rules were different and the masks came off because who was watching?

Rachel watched {{obj}} appear at the end of the hallway, and something flickered across her face — curiosity, caution, the faintest hint of a smile she didn't quite let form. She lowered her sketchbook slightly, the pencil still caught between her fingers.

"Can't sleep either?" Her voice was that honeyed rasp, soft enough not to carry but carrying anyway in the stillness. She tilted her head, honey blonde hair spilling over one shoulder, and her eyes caught the dim light in a way that made them look almost silver. "Or are you one of those terrifying morning people who's already up for a jog?"

The library occupied the third and fourth floors of the Prescott building, a renovated space that tried to balance institutional practicality with aesthetic warmth — exposed brick, tall windows, oak tables that were probably veneer over particle board. In the evening hours, the population thinned to a dedicated few: the grad students carrelling in the stacks, the procrastinators driven to desperation, and the undergraduates who'd discovered that the campus Wi-Fi was marginally faster here than in the dorms.

Abby had claimed a corner table near the windows, her territory marked by the sprawl of textbooks, highlighters, and loose-leaf notes that radiated outward like the aftermath of a paper-based explosion. ‘The Making of the Middle Ages’ lay open beside ‘The Carolingian World’, both bristling with colored tabs. A highlighter was clamped between her teeth — orange, currently — and she was hunched over a primary source translation, her baby blues scanning the text with the ferocious concentration of someone who'd been reading for four hours and was running on fumes and spite.

Across from her, Max was supposedly working on the same midterm prep. In reality, her phone was propped inside her textbook at an angle designed to be invisible from passing librarians, and she was doom-scrolling through a CK3 forum thread about succession mechanics with the grim dedication of someone avoiding their responsibilities. Her brown hair was in its usual messy braids, bangs falling into hazel-green eyes, and she was wearing an oversized Ghost tee that she'd stolen from Grace and never returned. Her feet, in mismatched fuzzy socks, were propped on the chair beside her.

"Max." Abby didn't look up. "You've been on the same page for forty minutes."

"I'm absorbing it osmotically," Max muttered, not looking up either. Her thumb scrolled. "The knowledge is entering my brain through proximity. It's very advanced."

"Sunderland's going to fail us both."

"Sunderland can fight me." Max finally glanced up, and there was a smear of ink on her nose that she hadn't noticed. "I'll write the essay tomorrow. I work better under pressure."

"You work better under panic." Abby pulled the highlighter from her mouth and pointed it at Max like a prosecutor. "Last time you wrote an essay the night before, you submitted it with the placeholder intro that just said 'insert smart-sounding bullshit here.'"

Max had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. "I fixed it. Eventually."

"After Professor Chen read it aloud to the class."

"That was a character-building experience." Max's eyes flicked back to her phone, but her shoulders had tensed slightly. She was quiet for a moment, then: "Abby. What the fuck was the Investiture Controversy actually about? I've read this section three times and it's just words. It's just sounds. Henry and Gregory can both choke."

Abby sighed — fond, exhausted — and reached for her notes. "Okay. So. Picture this. The Pope and the Emperor walk into a bar—"

The sound of approaching footsteps made both women look up. Someone was weaving through the tables toward their corner, and Abby's hand moved instinctively to smooth her ponytail while Max's phone vanished into her textbook with practiced speed.

Abby blinked at the approaching figure, her expression open and slightly curious. Max's was more guarded, hazel eyes assessing with that particular blend of wariness and skepticism she wore like armor.

"Can we help you?" Max asked, her tone hovering precisely between polite and suspicious.

Dragon's Lair occupied a narrow storefront on Broad Street, wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a place that sold artisanal hot sauce to tourists who didn't know better. The interior was a controlled explosion of nerd culture — walls lined with comic longboxes, display cases of sealed booster packs and Funko Pops, shelves groaning with sourcebooks and dice trays and miniatures in various stages of assembly. The smell was distinct: old paper, new plastic, and the faint chemical tang of energy drinks consumed by people who'd been here since noon.

In the back corner, at one of the battered folding tables reserved for open play, two figures sat across from each other amid a sprawl of cards, dice, and empty chip bags.

Matty had her black hair with its crimson streaks pulled into a messy topknot, stray pieces framing her face as she hunched over her side of the board. She was wearing an oversized Cradle of Filth tee — the logo stretched and faded from too many washes. Her eyes were narrowed at the battlefield, lips pursed, one finger tapping against the table in a rhythm that suggested mounting frustration. Her side of the board was a graveyard of creatures, and her hand was down to two cards.

"Fuck," she said, with feeling. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Across from her, Max was trying very hard not to smile. She was failing. Her hair was messier than usual, her bangs slightly askew, and she had the particular glow of someone who was winning and knew it and was trying to be gracious about it but also absolutely was not gracious about it. Her board state was a carefully constructed engine of destruction — she'd been building toward this combo for three turns and Matty had walked right into it.

"You walked right into it," Max said, unable to resist. Her voice was sweet in the way that meant she was being a little shit. "I had four untapped lands. You saw me tutor for the card. What did you think was going to happen?"

"I thought you were bluffing." Matty's beauty mark dimpled as she scowled. "Nobody actually runs that combo. It's too greedy."

"I'm greedy." Max examined her hand with theatrical casualness. "I'm extremely greedy. I'm a goblin king hoarding my resources until the moment of maximum devastation. This is established canon."

"You're a fucking menace is what you are." Matty leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "And you run mono-black too. You're supposed to be predictable. We had a bond."

"We have a bond," Max agreed, still smirking. "The bond of mono-black solidarity. Which is why I know exactly how you think, and why I knew you'd attack into open mana like an absolute gremlin."

Matty grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged in frustration. "I hate you. I hate your stupid face. I hate that you look like a sleepy raccoon and you still beat me."

"Sleepy raccoon?" Max's smirk flickered into genuine offense. "Excuse me? I look like a cunning raccoon. A rakish raccoon. A—"

"Shut up and attack me already so I can suffer with dignity."

Max drew her card, considered the board with exaggerated thoughtfulness, and then — finally, mercifully — swung in for lethal. Matty watched her creatures crash in with the resigned bitterness of a general watching her forces fall, then extended her hand across the table.

"Good game, you absolute goblin."

Max took it, her smirk softening into something almost warm. "Good game. Same time next week?"

"Same time next week, and I'm bringing a different deck, and I'm going to destroy you."

"You said that last week."

"And I meant it last week. I mean it harder this week."

Vinyl Destination on a weekday afternoon was a particular kind of quiet — not silent, because silence didn't exist in a building full of vinyl and old speakers, but settled. Content. The kind of quiet that came from a space that knew exactly what it was and didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

Grace was behind the counter, her lean frame perched on a stool with her boots hooked around the rungs, flipping through a copy of Kerrang! from 2019 that someone had left in the break room. Her lavender hair was tousled and loose, falling across her face in a way that suggested she'd stopped caring about it hours ago, and her black beanie was pulled low over her forehead. She wore a Misfits tee — the skull logo cracked and peeling from age —, and her tattooed arms were folded across her chest as she read.

The shop was split between two levels. Down here, the front level, was the music: rows and rows of records organized by genre and then alphabetically, the kind of obsessive system that only made sense if you'd spent enough time here to learn its logic. Rock and punk near the front, metal and hardcore in the back corner, jazz and blues along the side wall, everything else scattered in between. Display cases held turntables and speakers with hand-written price tags. A turntable in the corner was playing something by The Damned at a volume low enough to be ambient.

The stairs in the back led up to the instrument loft — guitars on stands, amps in a row, a glass case with picks and strings and cables, and the infamous Pearl drumset with its "Please do not play!" sign that Dee had enforced with the quiet menace of a mob boss protecting territory.

Speaking of which — Dee was in the back office, the door cracked open, the sound of her typing audible beneath the music. She'd emerged once in the past two hours to restock the new arrivals bin, offered Grace a look that was equal parts assessment and approval, and vanished again.

The bell above the door hadn't rung in over an hour.

Grace turned a page, not really reading. Her ice blue eyes kept drifting toward the window, watching Broad Street's afternoon shuffle — students heading to and from campus, a dog walker, a couple arguing about something in animated fashion. Her fingers drummed against her thigh, restless. She'd worked the morning shift yesterday and the closing shift the day before, and today was supposed to be her day off, but Dee had asked and Grace had said yes because what else was she going to do? Sit in her dorm room and listen to Max play CK3 for six hours?

The door's bell chimed.

Grace's head came up, automatic, and she slid the magazine aside. Her expression settled into that particular blend of cool assessment and guarded curiosity she wore like armor — not unfriendly, exactly, but not inviting either. You had to earn the invitation.

"Hey." She didn't stand, just tilted her chin in acknowledgment, her ice blue eyes tracking {{obj}} as {{sub}} entered. "Looking for anything specific, or just browsing?"

Somewhere in the back, Dee's typing paused for a moment — listening, probably, the way she always did when someone new came in — then resumed.

The Ossuary lived up to its name. The bar occupied a basement space on Saltmarsh Lane, down a set of concrete steps marked by a single neon sign — a skeletal hand, middle finger extended, flickering in tonight’s coastal fog. Inside, the ceiling was low and black, the walls painted the color of dried blood and plastered with faded show posters and band stickers layered so thick they'd become their own texture. The air was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the particular smell that came from too many bodies in too small a space.

Friday night was tribute night. The stage — a raised platform barely big enough for a drum kit and four people standing shoulder to shoulder — was currently occupied by a local act called Carrion calling themselves doing "Nihilist covers," which meant they were playing ‘Only Shreds Remain’ front to back with more enthusiasm than precision. The sound system was too loud in the way that was exactly right — the bass hitting in the chest like a second heartbeat, the guitars a wall of beautiful noise, the vocals a guttural roar that vibrated in the sinuses.

Grace was near the front, close enough to the stage that the singer's sweat could theoretically reach her but smart enough to stay just outside the splash zone. She'd abandoned her beanie somewhere — probably back at the bar with her leather jacket, hopefully not lost forever — and her lavender hair was wild, damp at the temples, swinging as she headbanged in that economical way that suggested she'd done this a thousand times and knew how to keep her neck from seizing. Her eyes were half-closed, lost in the riff, and she was mouthing the lyrics without realizing it — a private devotion performed in public.

Beside her, Matty was a contrast in energy. Where Grace headbanged, Matty moved — jerky, kinetic, unable to stay still. Her black hair with its crimson streaks was already a mess, sticking to her face and neck, and her oversized Entombed tee was soaked through. Her emerald eyes were bright, fierce, that rare genuine smile cracking through her usual scowl. She'd elbowed her way to this spot with Grace twenty minutes ago and she'd defend it with her life if necessary.

"This fucking riff!" Matty shouted over the noise, grabbing Grace's arm. "This fucking riff, Grace!"

"I know!" Grace shouted back, grinning. "They're actually tight! I didn't think they'd be tight!"

"Neither did I! The guitarist was sketching me out before the set!"

"He looks like he smells like bong water!"

"He definitely smells like bong water!"

They both laughed — sharp, breathless, joyful — and then the song shifted into the breakdown and their attention snapped back to the stage, bodies moving in unison with the crush of sound.

The crowd around them was a mix: regulars who treated The Ossuary like a second home, curious students who'd heard this was the place to be on a Friday, a few older metalheads who'd been coming here since before the current undergrads were born. The mosh pit was contained but active — a swirling knot of bodies in the center, people bouncing off each other and coming up grinning. Not violent. Communal.

Near the bar, three deep in the wait for drinks, was a pocket of relative quiet. The bartender — a large man with a beard that could house small birds and a vest patchwork of band logos — was pulling pints with mechanical efficiency. The cocktail menu was a joke; you ordered beer or whiskey or you left.

The night was young. Carrion had three more songs, and then another act was going up — rumors said they were die-hard Tobias Forge fans doing Repugnant, which had Matty practically vibrating when she'd heard. The air was electric with that particular potential that existed in rooms like this: the possibility of connection, of recognition, of finding your people in the dark.

Grace glanced toward the bar, considering an alcohol-free drink, and her gaze swept across the faces — familiar, unfamiliar, unremarkable. Then it caught on someone, and she looked a second longer than necessary before turning back to the stage.

The party was at some sophomore's off-campus apartment — a cramped two-bedroom with Ikea furniture and sticky floors and a kitchen counter lined with bottles of cheap vodka and mixers that had run out an hour ago. The living room had been cleared of its coffee table and pushed into the corner, creating a space just large enough for a circle of bodies sitting cross-legged on the stained carpet. The music was loud enough to drown out conversation but not loud enough to justify dancing, which was how the game had started — that particular species of boredom that made people do things they'd pretend not to remember tomorrow.

"Okay, okay, okay!" Ashley clapped her hands together, her curly golden-blonde ponytail bouncing with enthusiasm. Her blue eyes were bright with the particular gleam of someone who'd had exactly two drinks and was now the life of the party by sheer force of will. "Everyone knows the rules! Spin the bottle, wherever it points, you kiss! No cheating, no backing out, no—"

"Ash, you've explained the rules four times," Maya interrupted, her dark curly hair tumbling over one shoulder as she leaned back on her hands. Her hazel-green eyes sparkled with amusement. "We get it. We've all been playing this since seventh grade."

"Some people need refreshers!" Ashley said, with a dignity that was somewhat undermined by the hiccough that followed. "Courtney, back me up."

Courtney examined her nails with the air of a queen granting an audience. Her platinum blonde bangs fell across her gray eyes in a way that looked effortless and probably took forty-five minutes to achieve. "The rules are simple," she said, her voice carrying that particular sassy lilt. "You spin, you kiss, you don't be a baby about it. If the bottle lands on someone of a gender you're not into, you kiss on the cheek. If it lands on someone you are into..." A small, sharp smile. "You figure it out."

"Gross," Maya said cheerfully. "I love it."

The circle was a mix: Ashley, Courtney, and Maya in a cluster on one side, a few other students whose names had already blurred together, a guy from the swim team who kept checking his phone, and — notably — one empty spot near Courtney that had just opened up when the previous occupant bailed after hearing what game they’d be playing.

The bottle in the center was a Smirnoff leftover, empty and slightly sticky, catching the lamplight as the last spin wound down. It had landed on Ashley, who'd kissed some guy from the football team on the mouth with a cheerful "mwah!" and zero hesitation, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand and grinned.

"My turn again!" she announced, reaching for the bottle.

"Ash, you just went," Courtney said.

"That was a practice round!"

"That's not—"

But Ashley was already spinning, the bottle whirling across the carpet, and the circle leaned in with the particular collective breath that came with watching fate decide something stupid and fun.

The bottle slowed. Passed Maya. Passed Courtney. Passed the empty spot.

And kept going.

It settled, pointing directly at {{user}} who'd just walked in.

Ashley's face lit up. "Oh my god, perfect! Hi! Come sit down, you're playing now!"

Courtney's gray eyes tracked up and down the newcomer with cool assessment, one eyebrow raised. Maya wiggled her fingers in a wave, grinning.

"Rules are rules," Courtney said, and that sharp smile was back. "You walking in counts as entering the game. Those are the rules."

"You literally just made that up," Maya whispered to no one in particular.

"Shh," said Courtney. "Atmosphere."

The house on Walnut Street had achieved that particular density of party that made the walls sweat. Every room was a collision of bodies and noise — the kitchen crowded with people mixing drinks from bottles that didn't belong to them, the hallway a bottleneck of people trying to get to the bathroom, the back porch a haze of cigarette smoke and conversation. The living room had been designated the dance floor, if you could call pressed-together swaying in a space barely large enough to breathe "dancing." The bass was so heavy it blurred the edges of things, made the whole night feel slightly unreal.

Kaylee was in the center of it.

She'd positioned herself with the unconscious precision of someone who knew exactly how to be seen. A cropped white top that showed the flat plane of her stomach and the faint freckles on her shoulders. High-waisted denim shorts that hugged her hips. Bare legs ending in strappy sandals she'd probably regret by midnight. Her dirty-blonde hair with its platinum highlights was loose and wavy, catching the colored lights someone had strung across the ceiling, and her baby blues were bright with the particular shine of two vodka-crans and the attention of the guy standing too close to her.

He was on the football team. She didn't remember his name. Brad? Brett? Something with a B. He was tall and broad and his hand was on her waist and he was saying something she couldn't hear over the music, leaning in so his lips brushed her ear, and she was laughing — that bright, breathy laugh she'd perfected — and playing with the neck of her drink.

Across the room, leaning against the wall near the speaker with a solo cup of flat beer she wasn't drinking, Matty watched. Her eyes tracked Kaylee's movements with the stillness of a guard dog who knew something was about to go wrong. Her black hair with its crimson streaks fell across her face, and her oversized Hooded Menace tee — a rare nod to doom metal tonight — made her look smaller than she was. Her jaw was tight.

She hated these kinds of parties. She came because Kaylee came, because Kaylee at parties without Matty was a disaster waiting to happen, because someone had to watch. And right now, watching meant watching Kaylee perform the version of herself that everyone expected — the fun one, the easy one, the one who laughed at everything and touched arms and let hands rest on her waist like it meant nothing.

The guy — Bryce, his name had to be Bryce — leaned in again. Kaylee tilted her head, still smiling, still performing.

And then Matty heard it.

Two girls passing by, close enough that their voices cut through the music. Not talking to Kaylee. Talking about her. Loud enough to be heard. Loud enough on purpose.

"—seriously, Community Kaylee is at it again—"

"—every single party, it's like, pick a different hobby—"

"—I heard she hooked up with three guys last weekend—"

"—shockerrrr—"

They didn't even look at Kaylee when they said it. That was the worst part. They just walked past, giggling to each other, like she was furniture. Like she was a joke that didn't even need a punchline because everyone already knew it.

Kaylee's smile didn't falter. Not for a second. She kept laughing at whatever Probably-Bryce was saying, kept playing with her hair, kept her posture loose and her body angled toward him like nothing had happened. But Matty saw it — the micro-flinch, the way her baby blues went flat for just a moment before the light came back, the way her fingers tightened on her cup hard enough to dent the plastic.

Matty pushed off the wall.

She was crossing the room before she'd consciously decided to move, weaving through the crowd with sharp elbows and a face that made people step aside. Her target was the two girls, already disappearing toward the kitchen, but she only made it three steps before—

"Hey." Matty's voice cut low and dangerous. She wasn't talking to the girls now. She was talking to Bryce, who had just moved his hand from Kaylee's waist to her ass with the casual entitlement of someone who assumed permission was implied. "Get your fucking hand off her."

The music kept pounding. The party kept swirling. But in the small space around Kaylee and Maybe-Bryce and Matty, the air had gone sharp and still.

...