"Stop pulling my arm, Maya," I yelled over the bass rattling the floorboards.

"Stop trying to escape," Maya shouted back. She yanked me deeper into the living room, dodging a guy holding two red plastic cups. "You promised me two hours, Lily. You can't bail after ten minutes."

"I didn't know half the town would be jammed into one house."

"It's the pre-season kickoff." Maya grinned, adjusting her tight black top. "Everyone is here. The whole roster, the cheer squad, even the freshmen who snuck in through the basement window. Now, go mingle before I force you into a game of pong."

"I don't know how to play pong."

"Then you'll learn today."

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me stranded by the staircase.

The house smelled like stale beer and sweat. The floor vibrated beneath my sneakers, syncing with the heavy drumbeat of the music. I hated parties. I hated the noise, the heat, the unpredictable chaos of drunk teenagers shouting over each other.

I scanned the room for a quiet corner. Or better yet, a back door.

Instead, I found him.

Ethan stood near the hallway, completely surrounded by a tight circle of cheerleaders. Two of them were laughing loudly at a joke, leaning in close to touch his arm. But Ethan wasn't looking at them. He held a plastic cup in his hand, his chin tipped up, scanning the crowded room with a heavy, detached expression. He looked completely bored. Like he was a million miles away.

Then his amber eyes locked onto mine.

The boredom vanished. The shift in his demeanor was instant. He pushed off the wall, his shoulders squaring up.

"Ethan, wait, I was asking you about the game tomorrow," a blonde girl started, reaching for his jersey.

"Not right now," he interrupted flatly.

He didn't say excuse me. He just walked straight toward me. The dense crowd naturally parted, giving the star player a clear path. My feet stayed glued to the floor. I should have turned around. I should have walked right out the front door.

He stopped inches away, forcing me to tilt my head back.

"You don't belong here," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise.

I crossed my arms to hide my nervous hands. "Neither do you."

A quick smirk flashed across his mouth. "Follow me."

"Why should I?"

"Because you look like you're about to sprint out the front door, and I know a better exit."

"I'm perfectly fine standing right here."

"Liar." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "Come on. Before Maya finds you and makes you do a keg stand."

He didn't wait for my answer. He turned and navigated through the kitchen. I followed his broad shoulders, letting him clear a path through the sweaty bodies.

He pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the back porch. I followed, sliding the heavy glass shut behind me.

The thumping bass instantly muted into a dull thud.

Cold winter air hit my flushed cheeks. I looked up. A massive spread of stars dotted the black sky, completely unobstructed by the town's streetlights. The contrast between the suffocating house and the crisp night was jarring.

Ethan walked to the edge of the wooden deck and leaned his hips against the railing. He set his cup down on the ledge, completely untouched.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I just wanted to get out of there too." He studied me in the dim yellow porch light. "So, answer a question for me."

"Depends on the question."

"Why do you paint the rink?"

I frowned. "I didn't think you cared about art."

"I don't," he replied quickly. "I care about why you draw my sport. You told me you hated hockey."

I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, shivering slightly as the wind picked up. "I do hate the game. But the rink is different. The lines make sense. They have order. There are rules, boundaries, and geometry. I like things I can control."

Ethan laughed.

It wasn't his usual arrogant, mocking sound. It was genuine, carving tiny, attractive creases at the corners of his eyes. The sound sent a strange jolt straight to my chest. He looked younger when he smiled like that. Less burdened.

"That's funny," he said.

"I wasn't making a joke."

"I know. That's why it's funny." He turned his head, looking out at the dark, frozen yard. "Because out there, I don't control a damn thing."

"You're the captain. You control the plays."

"I execute the plays," he corrected, his tone turning serious. "But once the puck drops, it's just chaos. I don't control the ice. I don't control the other team. I just throw myself at the game and hope I hit something hard before it hits me."

I pulled my right hand out of my pocket and gripped the icy railing. "That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

He shifted closer. His large hand slid over mine on the wooden rail, completely covering my knuckles.

The heat of his skin shocked me. Rough calluses scraped against my hand—the permanent marks of gripping a hockey stick and tying tight skates.

I didn't pull away. I didn't even flinch.

Ethan leaned down. His face hovered inches from my neck. The sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the freezing night wind and a faint trace of alcohol. My pulse hammered violently against my throat.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"It's cold."

"Is it?" His thumb brushed over the back of my hand.

"Yes."

"Do you want to go back inside?"

"No."

He tilted his head closer. His amber eyes dropped to my mouth. The tension between us pulled tight, thick and suffocating. The air grew heavy, charged with a dangerous electricity.

My phone buzzed aggressively in my pocket.

The spell shattered. I yanked my hand out from under his, instantly missing the heavy warmth.

I pulled out the phone. The screen glared brightly in the dark.

*Caleb: Where are you?*

My stomach twisted into a painful knot. Reality crashed down on me, freezing and sharp.

"He's tracking you," Ethan noted, his tone flat.

"I have to go."

"Ignore him."

"I can't." I shoved the phone back into my pocket. "I'll see you at school, Ethan."

"I want to see you," he said.

I froze, my hand resting on the glass door handle. "You need the logo finished. I get it."

"Not because of the logo." He stepped into my space, forcing me to look up. "Not because of anything. Just you."

My heart drummed a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I backed up, my boots scraping against the wooden deck. I had to leave. If I stayed out here another minute, I would do something incredibly stupid.

I slid the door open and glanced back over my shoulder.

Ethan leaned against the doorframe. The yellow porch light outlined his broad shoulders, turning him into a sharp silhouette against the dark siding.

"I have to go," I whispered.

"Then let me," he murmured, his eyes burning into mine.

I didn't answer. I stepped inside and yanked the door shut, plunging myself back into the sweltering, noisy living room. The bass swallowed me whole. But as I pushed past the sweaty bodies, a terrifying realization settled in my chest.

I had crossed the line. There was no going back to normal.

An hour later, the party finally died out. Maya waved goodbye, disappearing into a friend's car.

I walked toward the front yard, my hands shoved deep into my pockets.

Caleb stood by the passenger side of his SUV. The streetlamp illuminated his rigid posture. He didn't ask if I had fun. He didn't ask where I had been.

He just stared at me.

I stopped a few feet away. "Can we go home?"

He didn't speak. His jaw muscles locked tight, twitching under his skin. The silence between us felt heavier than the freezing air. He didn't need to ask a single question. I could see it in his eyes.

He knew everything.

He slowly reached out and opened the passenger door, his gaze never leaving my face. The war had officially started, and I had just handed him the ammunition.