Chapter 2
TWO
CALEB
The house feels too full. It’s suffocating, like all the college frat parties I try hard to avoid.
It makes the panic attacks worse. The bass of the music rattles the windows, people shouting over it in bursts of laughter and drunken slurs.
Orange string lights cast everything in a fever glow, shadows twitching across walls where fake cobwebs hang like real decay.
Someone’s put on a fog machine near the front door, and the low mist curls over the floor like smoke.
Everyone else seems to love it.
Except me.
Inside, I’m trying to hold my shit together.
Dad’s in the middle of the living room with a plastic cup raised high, cape flowing dramatically every time he spins.
Celeste claps along to the beat of the music, her witch hat tilting precariously as she dances with one of the neighbors.
People are scattered across couches, perched on counters, or pressed into corners with bottles clutched in their hands.
Who knew our parents could throw such a rager?
I keep moving, weaving through clusters of guests, pretending I’m busy—refilling chip bowls, grabbing sodas, offering useless help no one actually wants. Anything to avoid standing still.
Because whenever I stop, I feel it.
I feel him.
He hasn’t said a word to me since earlier, but he doesn’t have to. His mask does the talking now—faceless. Empty. A parody of anonymity. And yet I feel him watching me from behind it, every second, every breath.
He leans against the wall like he’s the one throwing this party.
People gravitate toward him, always orbiting his gravity.
Women throw themselves at him, and he doesn’t even have to try.
They laugh louder near him, stand taller, and push closer.
But his eyes—those blue neon X’s—never drift far from me.
It makes my skin crawl. It makes my pulse beat wildly against my ribs.
I can’t stand it.
I gotta get out of here before I pass out.
The bathroom is dim when I slip inside, the single overhead light buzzing faintly. I lock the door behind me and brace my hands on the sink.
The mirror is unforgiving.
Sweat clings to my forehead, my hair messy from the heat of the crowd.
My jersey hangs loose on me, white with my school name stretched across the chest in faded blue.
I wore it because Dad said costumes were “mandatory,” and I didn’t have anything else.
Now, staring at myself, I just look like a kid trying too hard.
I pull at the hem, frowning at my reflection.
I’m not small. Six-one, lean muscle from endless workouts and a strict meal plan. I work for it every day. But looking at myself now, I don’t see strength. I see… average. Forgettable.
Sophomore slump, the coach called it last week. Said a lot of players hit a wall in their second year. But this feels deeper than just basketball. This feels like me. Like no matter what I do, I don’t measure up.
Not to him.
Miguel doesn’t even try and people fall at his feet. Tattoos, motorcycles, and danger dripping from every grin. He’s not chasing grades or games, and still—he eclipses me. Forever living in the shadow of my older stepbrother.
And I hate myself because every time I try to pull away, I get dragged back in.
My hands clench the porcelain sink.
This is why you’re single. The thought hits sharp and bitter. This is why every time you try to hook up, it falls apart.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I remember the girl at the bar last month, her lips soft on mine, her hand tugging at my shirt, begging me to take her back to my dorm.
I should have been into it and should have pushed forward.
Instead, my mind betrayed me, flashing a face I shouldn’t think of, lips I shouldn’t crave, and eyes that burn hotter than they should.
Miguel.
Always him.
I shoved her away, muttered something about too much to drink, and bolted before I embarrassed myself worse. It’s the same every time. Guy, girl—it doesn’t matter. It never sticks, because behind their faces, his slides in. I open my eyes. My reflection stares back, cheeks flushed, jaw tight.
“You’re pathetic,” I whisper.
The word cuts deeper because I mean it.
Pathetic for wanting him.
Ridiculous for letting him live rent-free in my head.
Pathetic for the heat that coils in my stomach every time he looks at me like he knows.
Because he does.
I slam the water on, splash my face, and try to cool the flush off my skin. When I lift my head again, droplets run down my neck, soaking the collar of my jersey.
I look like a mess.
Like prey.
The knock on the door makes me jump.
“Occupied,” I call, voice shaky.
Silence.
Then—soft, muffled, but clear enough—a chuckle.
My stomach drops.
I know that laugh.
“Miguel,” I whisper to my reflection.
Another knock, slower this time. A deliberate beat, like a predator scratching at the cage.
I grip the sink until my knuckles whiten. He doesn’t say anything else, just lets the sound of his presence hang heavy through the wood. The footsteps fade, swallowed by the noise of the party.
I sag forward, pressing my forehead to the mirror. My breath fogs up the glass.
He’s fucking with me.
And worse—I’m letting him.
When I finally force myself back out, the house feels even hotter and heavier, like the walls are closing in.
The party has swelled, voices are louder, and music is pounding deeper.
Someone’s started a drinking game at the dining table, shots slamming against the wood.
Dad’s booming voice bellows encouragement while Celeste laughs too loudly, clearly tipsy.
I can already tell the hangovers in the morning are going to be epic. And nothing’s worse than when your parents are hungover.
No one notices me slipping back in. Blending back into the sea of bodies like I didn’t just have a mental breakdown in the bathroom.
But he does.
Across the room, Miguel still leans against the wall. The mask is tilted now, shadows swallowing half of it, the neon X’s glowing like a threat. His head tilts when he sees me, slow and deliberate.
The crowd swirls between us, but it doesn’t matter. The mask makes him untouchable, faceless, and inhuman.
But I feel his eyes.
I feel the hunt coiling tight, the game winding itself up.
My skin prickles, my heart thunders, and my body knows what my brain won’t admit.
The chase hasn’t even begun yet.
And I’m already caught.