Chapter 3
SAM
Whatever I thought a football team party was supposed to be, this was it—and then some.
There's bass—deep, chest-thumping, borderline structural—vibrating through the sidewalk like the ground itself is trying to party. The porch lights glow aggressively warm, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder on the steps, red cups everywhere, laughter spilling out the open door in wild, overlapping bursts.
I stop walking.
Like—full stop. Feet planted. Brain buffering. Soul briefly leaves body.
Willow bumps into my back and laughs. "Oop—sorry! You good?"
Am I good? Hell yeah, I am!
I stare at the house.
The porch is overflowing with people—actual human beings stacked in layers like a very loud, very sweaty wedding cake. Someone is perched on the railing like they've accepted death as a concept. Someone else is yelling lyrics that do not require yelling. The front door is wide open, swallowing people whole and spitting them back out laughing.
My mouth falls open.
Okay.
So this is what a football team party looks like.
I thought the last one I went to was chaotic, but this? This is on another level.
I've been waiting to do college properly for ages—waiting while life put me on hold, my plans delayed, my body and circumstances making executive decisions without consulting me. So when the upperclassmen from our program casually mentioned a football party, who was I to say no?
I have carefully curated outfits for this exact type of event.
Yes. Outfits. Plural.
Because I plan to attend dozens of these this year. I am making the most of this. I don't know when life might decide to pull another U-turn, so—YOLO. Is that still a thing people say? Whatever. It applies.
I stare at the house again and blink.
And blink some more.
The football team's house seems to stare back, vibrating, humming, practically cracking its knuckles like come on in, sweetheart—let's ruin your expectations.
"Oh my god," I whisper.
"Right?" Willow beams beside me, equally dazzled, equally buzzing with nervous excitement.
We met over a week ago in Intro to Visual Foundations—bonded over charcoal-stained fingers and a shared hatred of perspective grids—and now here we are: freshmen, art kids, standing at the edge of chaos like we're about to step into another dimension.
Ahead of us, a handful of upperclassmen from our program fan out confidently, already moving like they know the terrain—laughing, shouting hellos, slipping easily into the crowd. One of them turns back and waves us in.
Ana grins from the porch. "You guys coming?"
I inhale. Square my shoulders. Step forward like a brave little art student entering the jungle.
The second we cross the threshold, everything hits at once.
Heat. Noise. Motion.
Bodies shift and sway in every direction, like we've been dropped inside a lava lamp full of extroverts. The living room is packed—people dancing with zero choreography and maximum confidence. Cups everywhere. Laughter ricocheting off the walls. Someone has climbed onto furniture that does not look structurally sound.
I clutch Willow's arm on instinct.
My senses are screaming.
Everywhere I look, something is happening. A couple aggressively making out by the stairs. A guy explaining something very important with his hands. Someone laughing so hard they've fully folded in half. The walls are plastered with banners, old photos, flags that have absolutely seen things.
This place has history.
And possibly mold.
"This is insane!" I shout to Willow.
She grins. "It's how jocks party, Sam. This is pretty much the standard."
I scan the room again, heart racing, grin stretching so wide my face might cramp.
This—this wild, ridiculous sensory overload—is exactly what I imagined when I told myself next year will be different.
I didn't pack all those outfits, didn't hype myself up through months of what-ifs and almosts, just to sit in my dorm every weekend. I took a gap year. I survived things I don't like to put names to.
I earned this.
If there's a party, I'm going.
If there's a memory to make, I'm making it.
We inch farther inside, letting the current of bodies carry us forward. Someone presses a red cup into my hand without asking.
I laugh and take it—because apparently that's just how this works—and take a sip.
Oh, God. Instant regret, emphasis on the " instant"—like if instant coffee and buyer's remorse had a baby that kicked me in the taste buds.
It tastes like fizzy bread water with a personality problem. Like someone whispered beer into a cup of sadness. I swallow anyway, fighting the urge to make a face, because I am a grown adult woman who can suffer quietly.
Mostly.
I catch my reflection in a dark window and pause.
Black corset top hugging me just right, high-waisted ripped jeans, black ankle boots grounding the whole look. Hair down, simple jewelry, crossbody bag slung casually like I've done this before—even though I absolutely have not. I'm smiling, confident, eyes bright.
Happy.
This is me.
Samantha Westbrook 2.0.
So ready to party all night!
And as the music swells and Willow drags me toward the kitchen, it hits me—this giddy, bubbling certainty—that this is just the beginning.
That tonight is one of those nights I'll remember years from now and think, yeah... that's when it really started.
At some point—an hour ago? Two? Time is a social construct—I stop keeping track entirely. Because honestly, who cares? I'm having fun, and that feels like the only thing that matters right now.
Willow and I have danced a couple of times. We fully took over a corner of the living room at one point, screaming lyrics we absolutely did not know. We danced with Ana, with people whose names I will definitely not remember tomorrow.
We get pulled into loose circles of strangers, the music too loud to think, bodies moving with zero coordination and maximum commitment. It's messy and unpolished and somehow... freeing.
We've talked to a few of the football players earlier too. And okay, I'll admit it—they're actually pretty nice. Sweet, even. And flirting is clearly their primary language.
Compliments fly like confetti, tossed out casually, like it's second nature—little comments here and there, easy smiles, attention that feels practiced but effective.
Most of the girls buy into it immediately. Willow included. She's been smiling more than usual, which tells me everything I need to know.
Out of all the boys we talked to, there's only one name I actually remember.
Khol Carter.
Mostly because I've seen him before—we're in the same Philosophy class. He's a third year, but apparently skipped it his freshman year because the horror stories about Professor Percy scared the hell out of him. Now he's out of excuses and finally taking it, which feels like a rite of passage more than a class.
He's also the football team's new starting quarterback. Which explains the confidence. And the flirting. He's been trying to get my number for the past hour, circling back like he thinks persistence is going to wear me down.
It won't.
Because, unfortunately for him, I am a deeply committed, one-man woman.
Never mind that the man in question does not know this. Or would strongly object if informed. Or actively avoids me on most days.
Right now, I'm perched at the kitchen island with Willow, Ana, a couple of other girls, and a rotating cast of football players. The counter is crowded with bottles, limes, salt, and the kind of chaotic energy that says someone is about to make a decision they'll pretend not to remember tomorrow.
Tequila makes its grand entrance.
A shot glass slides toward me.
I stare at it.
Then I look up at everyone around the island.
"I should probably tell you," I say, keeping my voice casual, "that I've never had tequila before."
That earns me a few surprised looks—raised brows, a couple of amused laughs, some low ohhhs like I've just admitted to missing a basic life requirement.
"What?" one of the guys laughs. His name definitely starts with a J. Jimmy. James. Jin. Something like that. "Seriously?"
Khol, who's been leaning against the counter beside me, turns his head slowly, eyebrows lifting as he looks me over. "Never?"
I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug, palms tipping up like what can you do, the movement small but unapologetic.
"Wow," someone else says. "You've been missing out."
Have I, though?
I pick up the bottle and bring it closer, giving it a cautious sniff.
Immediate mistake.
The smell hits sharp and aggressive, like it's offended I questioned it—pure alcohol with a bite, no warmth, no invitation. My face twists before I can stop it, nose wrinkling.
"Oh," I say, setting the bottle back down. "No. I really don't think I'm missing that much."
Khol laughs. "Okay, that's not fair. You can't judge it by smelling it."
"I absolutely can," I say, deadpan.
He nudges the shot glass a little closer to me anyway. "Didn't you say this was only your second college party?"
"Yes," I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
"And you've never tried tequila?" he continues. "It's kind of a rite of passage. You can't really say you did college unless you've at least tried it."
I glance at the shot glass. Then back at him. "That sounds like propaganda."
Ana grins from across the island. "He's not wrong."
Khol tilts his head and pushes the glass another inch closer. "I promise it's not as bad as you're imagining."
"That's what people say right before something is exactly that bad."
He lowers his voice slightly, like we're negotiating something important. "You don't have to do a full shot. Just a sip. That way you can at least say you tried it and knock it off your list of things to do while in college."
I consider it. A sip feels... survivable.
I pick up the shot glass again, holding it delicately between my fingers like it might bite me. I glance around the island—everyone's watching me, not in a mocking way, just curious, amused, and waiting.
"Okay," I say. "But how do I actually do this? Just... drink it?"
Khol reaches out gently before I can tip it. "Wait."
He grabs the salt shaker and taps a little pile onto the back of my hand, right between my thumb and forefinger. Then he slides a small bowl of lime wedges closer to me.
"Salt first," he says. "Then the shot. Then lime."
"This feels ceremonial."
Khol grins. "It kind of is. There's a whole ritual to it, so just go with it."
I lick the salt, chuckling softly, suddenly very aware that all eyes are still on me. Then I lift the glass.
Someone starts tapping the marble counter. A few voices join in, soft but insistent.
"Chug. Chug. Chug."
I take a breath and tip the glass back, swallowing it in one go.
The burn is instant.
It scorches its way down my throat, hot and sharp, like my body is actively protesting this decision. My eyes water. I cough once, clapping a hand over my mouth as warmth spreads uncomfortably through my chest and into my stomach.
"Oh my god," I croak. "Why is it spicy?"
The group bursts out laughing.
"Lime!" Khol says between laughs. "You skipped the lime."
I grab a wedge and bite down hard.
The sour hits fast—bright, sharp, almost painful—but it cuts straight through the burn, pulling my face into a wince as my mouth floods and my throat cools.
I swallow, blinking a few times, then exhale.
"That," I say, pointing at the lime, "actually helps. A lot."
"See?" Khol grins. "You survived."
Yeah, barely.
But I'm laughing now and so is everyone else, and suddenly it doesn't matter that my throat still burns a little or that I'll probably never voluntarily drink tequila again.
I set the empty glass down and shake my head. "Congratulations," I tell him. "You've officially ruined tequila for me forever."
"Nah. You'll get used to it."
I highly doubt that.
Willow and I are in the middle of talking—when a guy sidles up beside her, close enough that I feel the shift in space before I even look. It's James. Or is it Jimmy?
He dips his head close. His lips hovers near her ear.
"Hey, you wanna go somewhere?" He murmurs, just loud enough for me to catch it too.
Willow's reaction is nearly imperceptible—yet I see it all. Color creeps into her cheeks, blooming warm and pink, and she bites down on her lower lip like she's trying to buy herself an extra second to think. Her eyes flick to mine, hesitant, questioning, even though the rest of her is already leaning toward him like gravity's made its decision.
They've been circling each other all night—glances held a little too long, laughter that lingers after the joke's over, the kind of tension that's obvious it feels like waiting for two magnets to snap together. Honestly, it's been painful to watch. Like two people playing chicken with their hormones.
You two look like you're about five seconds away from banging it out here, my inner voice supplies dryly.
Willow keeps looking at me, clearly waiting for a sign, like I'm her emotional chaperone. As if I have any say.
I don't say anything—I just let a slow smirk spread across my face and give her a tiny nod, the universal go for it signal.
That's all it takes.
She turns back to him, nodding once. "Yeah. Sure."
He doesn't hesitate. His fingers slide into hers like it's the most natural thing in the world, and he tugs her forward with an easy confidence that suggests he's been expecting this answer. She follows without protest, barely even glancing back as they melt into the crowd.
Well—almost.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, mouthing sorry and I'll find you later, her eyes bright with that heady buzz you get when dive fully into a moment.
I watch them disappear up the steps, shaking my head, amused despite myself.
I spend a few minutes talking to Ana and some of the upperclassmen before the tequila finally starts to make itself known—not in a falling-over way, just that light, floaty awareness where everything feels a notch louder and warmer than before. I mumble something about needing the bathroom and slip away.
The hallway leading to it is narrower, dimmer, the music muffled just enough to feel distant. Old photos and sun-faded flyers line the walls, curling at the edges like they've been hanging there since the dawn of civilization, and the floor has that unmistakable tacky pull that makes me lift my feet a little higher than normal, just in case.
There's a line.
Of course there is.
I step in behind two girls already waiting, half-present, half-zoned out, letting my attention drift until their voices float back toward me—unfiltered, unconcerned, clearly not meant for anyone else to hear.
"Trix," the brunette half-whispers, not nearly as quietly as she thinks, "are you seriously gonna hook up with him? George would literally go nuts."
"George isn't gonna find out," the other girl replies easily, rolling her eyes. "Unless you're planning on snitching or whatever."
They dissolve into giggles. I shift my weight, slide my phone into my hand like that might make me blend into the wallpaper.
"Anyway," Trixie continues, tilting her hand to examine her fresh gel manicure under the hallway light, "El is, like, stupid hot. I've been trying to get with him since that party at Sigma last year. So, I really can't pass this up."
The brunette laughs. "Honestly, if someone that hot wanted me, I don't think I could resist either. Boyfriend or not."
"I know, right?" Trixie says, pleased, the two of them laughing together in perfect, shameless agreement.
She glances toward the bathroom door and lets out an exaggerated sigh. "This line needs to move. What if he gets bored and finds someone else? I swear, I'll die."
I bite the inside of my cheek, schooling my face into something neutral.
Wow. So we're just... saying this out loud now.
When I finally let myself look properly, I take her in—Trixie is all porcelain smoothness—ice-blue eyes, glossy lips, blonde curls falling just right like they were styled to look effortless. The brunette beside her is just as put-together, dark hair glossy, eyeliner sharp, the kind of girl who always looks like she knows something you don't.
I don't get why people do this. I really don't. The casual way she talks about cheating, like it's just another option on a menu. Like people are interchangeable.
I shift my weight, arms folding loosely over my chest, fighting the urge to make a face.
Part of me wants to step forward and say something. Warn whoever "El" is. Tell him to run—fast and far—while he still can.
But I don't even know who they're talking about.
And even if I did... it's not my place. Not my mess.
So I stay quiet, wait my turn, do my business, and slip back into the party, actively trying to delete what I overheard from my brain because it is not my business. Not my circus. Not my morally questionable monkeys.
Some nights are fun.
Some nights show you things you didn't ask to see.
And apparently, tonight decided to multitask.
I weave past a few people on my way back to where our group was earlier, then pull out my phone and check the time.
Just a little past nine.
Which—okay. I said I was ready to party all night. I said that with confidence. With delusion. With the optimism of someone who forgot partying requires stamina, hydration, and some kind of emotional conditioning. Clearly, this is a skill you build over time. Like muscles. Or tolerance. Or the ability to stay upright past midnight.
For tonight, though? I think I've hit my quota.
I start typing a text to Willow, asking if she's almost done... gallivanting with James. Or Jimmy. Or whatever his name is. Upstairs. In his room. For the past—I squint at the time again—almost an hour.
Geez. Aren't they... taking a while?
But what do I know?
I hit send even though I'm fully aware she probably won't see it anytime soon, which is fine. I'll give her another ten minutes. If she doesn't respond by then, I'll send another text letting her know I'm heading back to the dorm.
We came in her car, so she's not stranded or anything—Ana's still here, fully prepared to play the role of responsible upperclassman until Willow eventually resurfaces from whatever highly immersive, time-consuming activity she's currently engaged in upstairs.
As for me? I am a capable adult woman who can summon a ride with her thumb. No big deal.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, shaking my head to myself.
I keep walking, already spotting our group gathered roughly where I left them, when something tugs at my attention—sharp and sudden, like a hook catching in my ribs. My gaze drifts toward the glass patio doors without my permission.
There's a knot of people out there, half silhouettes and smoke, bodies leaned into the night, cigarettes glowing like tiny warning lights.
I stop.
Blink.
Look again.
Because for half a second, I swear I saw something else. Or—someone.
My Elijah-detection system goes DEFCON 1, complete with air raid sirens in my head.
My eyes sweep the group automatically, scanning faces I can barely make out at this distance. Not that it matters. Seeing clearly has never been the point. Seeing him is. And when it comes to Elijah Deveraux, my vision has always had a very specific tunnel.
I squint through the glass like a deranged bird-watcher who's just spotted the rarest specimen on Earth.
And there he is!
Well, his back anyway. But that's enough!
I'd recognize that back in a police lineup of a thousand backs. It's an Elijah back—the Platonic ideal of backs—and I've spent approximately 57% of my life mentally tracing the topography of those shoulder blades. I've practically earned a PhD in Elijahology with a specialization in Posterior Studies.
My heart is doing the cha-cha-cha like it's auditioning for Dancing with the Stars, and my stomach feels like someone just released the entire San Diego Zoo butterfly exhibit inside it. Classic symptoms of Elijah Deveraux Syndrome.
There is no known cure.
Without hesitation—why would I pause when the love of my life is just meters away? I bolt across the patio, heart pounding like a bass drum, weaving between sweaty dancers and half-empty Solo cups. In a blink I'm behind Eli, flanked by his hockey bros—Cody and Reese—and even the acrid smoke from Eli's cigarette can't make me flinch.
Normally I'd gag, but tonight I'd hug an ashtray if it meant hugging him.
I skid to a stop and indulge in a full-on stare: dreamy, glittering eyes, the works.
Then I unleash my signature war cry. "Eliiiii!"
Like clockwork, he freezes—cigarette suspended inches from his lips—then pivots with a scowl so fierce I'd almost believe I'd offended the entire hockey league. Dark brows pulled low. Jaw set. Eyes narrowed in that sharp, assessing way.
"You gotta be kidding me," he mutters.
Not deterred, I plaster on my sparkle-smile and surge forward, arms already lifting because I've missed him. I haven't seen him in over twenty-four hours, which is frankly unacceptable, and I need my daily Elijah intake before I perish.
But before I can close the gap, his impossibly long athlete-arms snake around, pointer and middle finger arresting me at the forehead, forcing me to hover a meter away.
He cocks his head, eyes flashing, brow creased in exasperation. "You said she wouldn't be here... that's why I let you drag me to another frat party," he snaps at Cody. "Did you tell her we were coming?"
Cody, who's grinning beside him, shrugs. "Had no clue she'd show up here tonight."
"Cody..." Elijah's voice is a low-threat growl.
"I swear, Cap," Cody replies, lifting his hands. "I didn't text her. Didn't even think about it."
Eli exhales through his nose and his gaze swings back to me—those sharp emerald eyes boring into mine, lips flat like he ran out of patience hours ago.
His fingers remain glued to my forehead.
"Are you here stalking me again?"
I should say no.
I should tell him this is genuinely a coincidence. A fluke of timing and tequila and poor life choices. I should clarify that, yes, I do often end up wherever he is, but it's not stalking—it's more like...cosmic alignment of our destinies.
I mean, is it really stalking if the universe keeps putting us in the same place?
But I already know he won't believe whatever explanation I tell him.
So, instead of correcting him, I bat my eyelashes and purr, "Oh you know me, Eli... stalker is my middle name." I even give him a little wink for emphasis.
His expression doesn't change.
Not even a twitch.
If anything, his scowl deepens, like I've just confirmed a theory he's been working on for years.
"That's not funny," he says flatly.
I hum. "See, I disagree. I think it's hilarious."
His fingers press a little more firmly into my forehead, not painful, just... persistent. Like he's holding back the urge to physically relocate me somewhere else.
"You followed me here," he says.
"I did not follow you," I protest. "I got invited to this party, so I showed up. Pretty sure I was already here before you, actually." I tilt my head, smile sharpening. "So if we're pointing fingers... that sounds suspiciously like you followed me."
He arches a brow. One singular, devastating brow.
"You always have an excuse," he mutters.
I shrug—well, I attempt to, but it's difficult when I'm still being held at arm's length like an overenthusiastic toddler. "I prefer the term explanation."
"Then what about when you showed up at the coffee shop last week."
"I needed caffeine."
"You don't drink coffee."
"I was branching out."
"And the rink."
"I like... ice," I say weakly.
He stares at me, unimpressed.
I beam back at him, entirely unbothered, heart doing cartwheels because even irritated Eli is still Eli, and I am deeply, tragically gone.
"Look," I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "I get why you think I'm following you. I really do. If I were you, I'd probably think the same thing. I have excellent timing. A sixth sense. A very committed heart."
"That's not helping your case."
"Okay, but consider this," I continue, undeterred. "What if I'm not stalking you... what if the universe just really wants us to run into each other?"
He snorts before he can stop himself. Catches it immediately. Scowls harder.
"Don't do that," he warns.
"Do what?"
"Make it sound like fate."
I grin. "Too late."
His fingers finally lift from my forehead, and I almost stumble forward from the sudden freedom. He steps back instead, putting space between us like distance is the only thing keeping his sanity intact.
"I'm sorry for making you wait," a sultry voice purrs from behind me.
It's familiar in that irritating, itch-at-the-back-of-your-brain way, like a song you hate but somehow know all the words to. I shift just enough to glimpse the owner and my jaw drops.
It' s Trixie. The blonde with porcelain skin and ice-blue eyes—the same one I overheard in the hallway giggling about cheating on her boyfriend like it was a cute personality quirk. The one who'd been counting the minutes until she could get back to El.
Wait a minute... Suddenly, something clicks into place in my head with a sickening kind of clarity, the pieces sliding together whether I want them to or not.
The "El" she was cooing over earlier is Elijah—my Elijah.
My stomach drops so fast I'm pretty sure it leaves a dent in the floor.
"Should we head out now?" Trixie asks, all honeyed suggestion, eyelashes fluttering as she looks up at him.
Oh, no... ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY NOT.
I let out a sharp, humorless scoff before I can stop myself.
"Sure," Eli says easily.
Too easily.
He steps past me like I'm furniture—like I've always been furniture—and reaches for her hand. His fingers curl around hers without hesitation, without a second thought, and something in my chest cracks so hard it almost makes a sound.
"Eli, wait," I call out.
He stops briefly, but his back is already to me. Like fucking always—like that's all I ever get. Like he's decided that all I'm allowed to see is the part of him that walks away. Like he knows turning around would give me something, and he refuses to give me even that.
"Stay out of my business, Samantha."
The coldness of his tone, the full weight of my name, stabs straight into my chest.
My hands ball into fists at my sides before I can stop them. I feel it in my throat, that familiar burn, but I force my mouth into a smile anyway—wide, bright, painfully polite.
"Oh, I just wanted to remind you," I say sweetly, saccharine enough to rot teeth, "to use protection."
Trixie's head snaps toward me, eyes flicking over my face like she's trying to place where she's seen me before. Recognition doesn't fully land, but something close to it does—uncertainty, maybe. Guilt. Her smile falters just a fraction.
"You never know what you might catch," I add lightly, meeting her gaze dead-on, letting the implication sit there and fester.
For a split second, she looks flustered—cheeks flushing, grip on his hand tightening like she suddenly needs reassurance.
Eli doesn't turn around.
Doesn't say anything.
And that somehow hurts worse than if he had.
They walk away together, swallowed by the noise and the lights and the crowd, leaving me standing there with my smile still plastered on and my heart beating like it's lost its damn mind.
"Are you really just gonna let him walk away? Seriously?"
Cody materializes beside me, tracking my gaze across the room.
That's probably what finally yanks me out of my brief, melodramatic spiral. When I turn, he's dangling a keychain in front of my face—a jangling collection of door keys and a car fob, but what catches my eye is the Ridgewater Warriors hockey team medallion with Elijah #78 etched into the metal.
My lips curl slowly into the kind of smile that would make a supervillain proud—all teeth and terrible intentions, the kind that starts at one corner of my mouth and takes its sweet time reaching the other.
"Do you really think I'd let that happen?"
Cody's eyebrow lifts as he snaps his fingers with a flourish, thumb and middle finger clicking together triumphantly. "That's what I'm talking about. I'll call him back for his keys—buy you some time. Go make sure that girl finds somewhere else to be."
"Cody," I say, already stepping past him, "you are officially my favorite human being tonight."
He laughs. "Just don't let Cap know I helped you out."
I'm moving now, slipping between bodies, my veins humming with something electric. My heart pounds a rhythm that has nothing to do with sadness anymore.
Behind me, I hear Cody shout, "Good luck, Sam!"
I don't turn around.
Because if there's one thing I'm very good at, it's not letting Elijah Deveraux walk away without at least one more problem to deal with.
And tonight?
That problem is me.
The night air hits me like a fist the moment I step outside—cool and still, but pulsing with distant bass that seeps through every wall. The backyard has been turned into a jumbled lot: cars crammed in at wild angles, headlights glinting off people, shadows stretching and folding over one another as if everything out here is slightly out of sync.
I scan the lot. Left. Right. Rows of trucks, rows of sedans. Too many not his.
A flicker of dread scratches at my chest. Maybe I really am too late. Maybe he already left. Then I spot it: a blue Chevy Silverado sits a little farther down, angled half onto the grass like it doesn't care about rules or space or anyone else's convenience.
It's Elijah's truck.
Relief slams into me so fast I almost laugh.
And then I see her.
Trixie is leaning against the passenger side, one heel propped on the tire, phone glowing in her hand. She's alone. Head bent. Completely unaware of the storm walking straight toward her.
Lucky me.
"Where's Eli?"
She jolts like I've snapped a rubber band right behind her ear, phone slipping in her grip before she catches it at the last second. Heartbeat later, she looks up, eyes wide, caught off guard.
"Uh—who are you?" she stammers.
I give her a smile that's smooth enough to pass for friendly if you don't look too closely. My fingers rake through my hair in an unbothered sweep, shoulders relaxed, stance easy—like I'm perfectly at home here, and she's the unexpected variable. I say nothing. I let the quiet stretch until it starts to itch.
"I'm Sam," I begin. "Eli's—"
Her expression shifts in an instant, all practiced warmth and bright eyes. "Oh! You're that girl from earlier." She tilts her head, the smile widening exactly as she planned. "Are you friends with El, too?"
Friend.
I click my tongue softly, shaking my head.
"Listen, Trixie." I make sure her name lands heavy, precise. "I'm not here to trade fake pleasantries with you. It's not really my thing."
Her lips twitch into that same fake grin.
"I just want one thing from you."
"And what's that?"
Right. I had promised myself this wasn't my business, not my mess... so I wasn't really planning to do anything about it. Except she made it mine the moment she decided Eli was just another notch on her bedpost—my Eli.
Hell would have to freeze over before I let that slide.
"Don't play coy with me... I know you recognized who I am. You know, the one who heard you and your friend giggling about cheating on your boyfriend." I pause, watching her face. "George, isn't?"
The smile finally cracks.
Not completely—but enough.
She swallows, fingers tightening around her phone.
Good.
She glances around the lot, suddenly aware someone else might be watching. "What do you want from me?" Her voice trembles.
I lean in just enough that she has to tilt her head back to keep eye contact.
"It's simple," I say. "You leave—right now."
Her brows knit together. "Excuse me?"
I step even closer.
"But before you do, let me make something crystal clear." I add calmly, "I don't care how many guys you've cheated with or how many more you plan to add to your collection. That's between you and your conscience—or lack thereof. But Elijah? He's off-limits."
I dip my head closer, voice dropping to a whisper she can feel in her bones.
"Try anything with him again, and I promise your little secret won't stay secret for long. I might not know everything about you yet, Trixie— but if I have to, I'll learn every dirty detail. And trust me, I can be very thorough when motivated."
Her eyes go wide. Without another word, she shoves off the truck, shoulders slumping, and hurries away into the shadows. I watch her retreat, and can't help but let out a soft laugh—pride flushing through me at having saved Eli from someone who didn't deserve him.
Not even just for one night.