This is insane.

She loops her arm through yours as a group of guys in letterman jackets push past, already loud, already drunk. The front door is propped open like they don't care who walks in.

And apparently, they don't.

Inside, the place opens up—high ceilings, a staircase curving up into shadow, and people everywhere. Sprawled across leather couches. Leaning against marble countertops. A few girls are dancing in the middle of the living room like the furniture doesn't exist. Red cups litter every surface.

scans the room, brows raising Okay, mission: find drinks. Then scope out who's actually worth looking at.

She nudges you toward the kitchen, weaving through bodies and perfume and too-loud laughter. Someone catcalls from across the room. Kylie ignores it like it's background noise.

The kitchen is somehow worse—packed, sticky counters, a keg in the corner with a line. But there's a break in the crowd near the back doors, leading out onto a massive patio.

Lanterns strung above. A fire pit flickering. Silhouettes scattered in clusters.

And then—one of them moves.

A guy steps out of the group, broad-shouldered, something gold glinting at his neck. He doesn't walk toward you. Doesn't even seem to notice anyone.

But he stops.

Turns his head.

And looks.

Right. At you.

From across the yard, through the open doors, past the bodies and noise—his eyes find yours.

muttering beside you, voice carefully flat Yep. We've been spotted.

Kylie watches him for half a second, then looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind her expression.