Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
The house shakes before we even hit the front walk.
Music thuds through the walls, basslines rattling the siding.
The porch is lined with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and a couple of bodies slumped in plastic chairs, already gone before the countdown’s even started.
Christmas lights hang loose and crooked from the gutters, blinking in sluggish reds and greens.
“This is some Animal House shit,” Drew says, wide-eyed, as we climb out of Eli’s Civic.
Eli grins like he’s about to win a prize fight. “Best kind of shit.”
Miles sighs, dragging his hood up like it’s armor. “You people are going to get me killed.”
“Correction,” Drew says, slinging an arm around him. “We’re going to get you drunk, which is basically the same thing, only with better music.”
Inside, it’s chaos. The living room’s a crush of sweaty bodies, red cups raised, beer pong table monopolizing the dining room.
The air reeks of cheap booze, sweat, and something fried.
A keg’s wedged into the kitchen sink, surrounded by mismatched bottles, while the backyard glows from a firepit and half a dozen people yell shot counts.
“Split up,” Drew decides. “Better odds of survival.”
“Better odds of you losing your pants,” Miles mutters, already angling toward the quieter kitchen.
“I like those odds,” Drew fires back, disappearing into the crowd.
Eli beelines for the beer pong table, smacking cups out of strangers’ hands like he owns the place.
Which leaves me.
I avoid parties like this. Unless we’re the ones playing, and even then I’m counting the minutes until we can pack the amps and leave.
But tonight’s different. Because he’s here, and he invited me.
It doesn’t take long to find him.
Ollie Marshall stands like a goddamn beacon in the middle of his team, head above the crowd, shoulders square in a plain black tee.
He’s not the loudest. Not even close. But he’s still the center.
The others orbit him, laughing too hard, jostling each other.
He just smiles, restrained, polite. A captain even here.
Then his gaze sweeps the room and snags on me.
His cheeks pinken—just a shade, but I see it. That same tell I saw in the gym, the one that lit up “Crimson High” in my head.
I don’t grin. Not outright. But inside, something sharp and hot unfurls.
“Go on, then,” Drew says, reappearing at my side with two beers. He presses one into my hand. “Don’t leave your captain waiting.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but my feet are already moving.
The team notices me first.
“Hey, Band Guy,” one of them says. “Good to see you, man.”
I salute him with my beer. “You too.”
Another elbows Ollie in the ribs. “Hell, Marshall, we should have organized his band to play tonight.”
Before he can respond, someone pulls his friend away with an arm around the neck and something about belly shots.
The tide of bodies shifts, loud and sloppy, until it drags the last of his teammates away. We’re left in the corner, pressed near the wall where the shadows from the string lights soften everything. It’s not private—not really—but it’s close enough to pretend.
“Hey,” I say to him.
“Hey,” he answers, low and guarded.
It’s awkward, tense even, but it’s a start.
I take a sip of my beer, more for something to do with my hands than thirst. “Sent the demo this morning,” I say, voice pitched low, like even the noise around us might overhear.
His eyes flick to me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I lean back against the wall and try for casual even though my chest is buzzing. “Three tracks. One fast, one heavy, one that drags like hell but crushes anyway.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Which ones?”
“‘Blackout,’ ‘Cinder,’ and one of the new ones.” My throat tightens around the name I don’t say: “Crimson High.”
He nods slowly, gaze locked on mine. “I’d love to hear them.” His tone is even, but there’s something under it, like the hum of feedback before a song kicks in.
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The noise of the party swells around us—shouts from the kitchen, the thump of bass through shitty speakers, laughter spilling from the hallway—but it feels far away. Here, it’s just him, shoulders squared, beer forgotten in his hand, eyes that don’t let me go.
I shift closer to the wall, enough that my arm almost brushes his. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, to breathe the sharp bite of whatever cologne clings to his shirt. If anyone glances our way, it’ll look like two guys talking. Nothing suspicious. Just casual. Normal.
Except it’s not.
The want hangs between us, thick and restless. I can see it in the way his jaw ticks, in the way he keeps his voice low, in the way his eyes dip for half a second to my mouth before snapping back up like he’s scolding himself.
I swallow hard. “I’ll play you the tracks. Just us.”
His breath catches. It’s quiet, but I hear it. Then he nods once, sharp, like he’s making himself agree before the rest of him can fight it.
And fuck, it nearly undoes me.
The noise of the party swells, but it’s muffled here, our corner carved out by the wall at our backs and the sheer fact that no one is paying attention. My fingers itch around the neck of my bottle, too tight, too aware of the space—or lack of space—between us.
He shifts, just a little, like he’s giving himself more room, but in doing so, his shoulder brushes mine. It’s barely a touch, but it hits like a live wire. My breath sticks in my throat.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though we both know he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“Don’t be,” I say, low, careful.
Our shoulders stay aligned, close enough that I can feel the heat bleeding through the fabric of his shirt. If I leaned the slightest bit more, we’d look like we were shoulder to shoulder on purpose. Like it meant something.
I tip my beer toward him, trying for easy. “I’ll play you the tracks tomorrow if you’re around. I’ll make sure the guys are out, so there are no distractions.” I’ll bribe them if I have to.
His eyes cut to mine, and for half a second, he doesn’t move. Then his fingers tighten around his bottle, his knuckles whitening, and he nods once more. And fuck, I hope he understood all the words unsaid with that invite.
The air feels sharp between us, thick with everything neither of us is stupid enough to say here. His jaw flexes, his mouth opening like he wants to speak, then snapping shut again.
Another crash of laughter explodes from the kitchen, covering the way his arm shifts—just a fraction, enough that the back of his hand grazes mine where it hangs at my side. A brush, no more than an accident, but I feel it everywhere, all the way down to my bones.
I don’t move away. Neither does he.
From the outside, it’s nothing. Two guys leaning against a wall, drinking beer, waiting out the noise. But inside, where it counts, it’s a fuse burning slow and merciless.
Eventually the door bangs open, the cold rush of bodies flooding past, and the spell cracks just enough for us to fall back into the current. He peels away toward his teammates, I get snagged by Drew dragging me toward the kitchen, and the night keeps moving whether I’m ready or not.
The hours blur, loud and messy. Drew somehow starts a dance circle in the living room, shirt already off, a lampshade balanced on his head.
Eli dominates beer pong, crowing until he loses, then sulking with a fistful of chips.
Miles finds a corner with another soda and starts talking sound engineering with some random film major who looks just as miserable to be here.
Me? I orbit Ollie. Not obvious. Not clingy. But every chance I get, I find him. A joke, a brush of shoulders, a look that lingers too long.
Right before midnight, the countdown shakes the walls. Ten, nine, eight—cups raised, voices hoarse, fireworks cracking outside. Someone’s standing on the counter, beer fizz raining down; someone else has already lost their shirt.
Seven, six, five—bodies sway, press close, the air thick with heat and bass.
Four, three, two—people scream, mouths already crashing together.
One.
The room erupts. Kisses and shouts, sloppy hugs, drinks sloshing over sticky floors.
I don’t kiss him. Not here, not yet. But across the room, through the chaos and the noise, his eyes meet mine. It’s not a glance—it’s a tether, sharp and unyielding. His teammates are jostling him, dragging him into their celebration, and still his gaze doesn’t waver.
Red blooms high and hot against his skin. His chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s been running. And for one reckless, impossible second, it feels like the whole damn year is waiting for us to step forward, to close the distance.
The reasons crowd in, sharp as broken glass.
All the tidy speeches about teammates watching, about a friendship that I know is bullshit and will never be enough, about not torching something fragile before it even starts.
But one look at him—cheeks flushed, eyes locked on me like the countdown is only ours—and the reasons don’t stand a chance. They never do when it’s him.
Someone grabs me, yelling, “Happy New Year!” in my ear, but it barely registers. The only thing I hear is the pounding behind my ribs. The only thing I see is him, steady in the middle of the blur, like maybe he’s fighting the same pull I am.
God, I want to kiss him. Desperation burns through me, mirrored in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his mouth parts like he might actually break and cross the room. But then one of his guys slaps his back, dragging him down into the crush, and the thread between us snaps.
I can’t breathe in here. Porch creaking, cigarette flaring, I step outside. The night’s cool, sharp, a relief after the heat inside.
The door opens behind me barely ten seconds later. Ollie steps out. The porch light cuts across his face, turning the lines of his frown sharper when he notices the cigarette between my fingers.