Once his name is forever burned into my contacts, I shove the phone deep into the pocket of my jeans and glance around. The neighborhood is the kind of rich that makes your chest tighten not because it's fancy, but because it reminds you exactly how not-fancy you are. Every house lining the street looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine spread. Smooth driveways. Perfect lawns. Massive, multi-story homes that could probably hold the entire population of my apartment building and still have space left over for an indoor pool.
It's dusk, and the sky is the kind of blue that sinks into your skin. Streetlights blink to life one by one. I spot Mateo's house immediately—not because I recognize it, but because it's the one that's practically vibrating with noise.
Dozens of cars are crammed along the curb, some even parked partially on the grass. The windows of the house pulse with colored lights, and I can hear the music pounding from halfway down the street. It's not just loud, it's feeling very physical. The bass thumps through the air like a second heartbeat. My own chest picks up the rhythm like it's trying to match it.
As I get closer, I swear the house gets bigger. It's stupidly huge. The kind of huge that makes you laugh because you don't know what else to do. I stand at the edge of the driveway, jaw halfway open, counting all the windows that probably have walk-in closets bigger than my bedroom.
I hesitate in front of the front door, nerves kicking up all over again. Should I knock? Should I just walk in? What if I accidentally walk into the wrong party and get tackled by a Labrador? What if Mateo forgot I was coming and I end up standing awkwardly in someone's kitchen, clutching a cup of water and pretending to text?
No thanks.
I pull out my phone and do the safe thing.
I'm here.
His response comes in seconds, so fast I wonder if he was watching me from the window or something.
Come in. I will find you.
There's something about those four words that sends a strange flutter through my stomach. Like an entire school of butterflies just took flight all at once. I hate that I'm smiling. I hate that a part of me feels… excited?
What is happening to me?
With one last deep breath, I reach for the handle and step inside.
Instant regret.
My senses are immediately ambushed. The stench of alcohol hits first, thick and sour and far too familiar. Then comes the music, it is loud enough to feel like it's shaking my teeth. Every beat is like a punch to the ribs. My ears ring, but somehow I can still make out people shouting, laughing, and singing along badly to whatever song is playing.
Lights flash from somewhere inside, purple, red, blue, painting everything in quick, strobing color. It's overwhelming. Chaotic. And somehow still better than being at work.
I wrinkle my nose as the smell of weed curls through the air. It's not surprising, but it is… strong. Like, impressively strong. I've worked with enough high school dropouts to be mostly nose-numb to it by now, but this is something else. Like walking into a fog bank made of smoke and regret.
Still, I stay rooted by the front door, playing nervously with the hem of my shirt. Mateo said he'd find me. Wandering off would make that harder, right? Totally logical. Also, I am one awkward movement away from a full-blown panic spiral, so I'd rather not go wandering into a room full of strangers.
Instead, I chew my bottom lip until I feel the skin break. There's a tiny sting. Old habit. Bad habit. But it's either that or start pacing like a lunatic.
The door swings open behind me, smacking into my shoulder. I stumble sideways just in time for a couple to walk in like they own the place. The girl's wearing a band tee, heavy boots, and the kind of eyeliner that says I do not have time for your nonsense. She looks like she just came from a rock concert and probably started one on the way over. Honestly? Iconic.
I shuffle awkwardly to the side, planting myself near the wall where I can observe without being noticed. I scan the room for Mateo, but either he's not here yet or I'm just looking in the completely wrong direction.
And then he appears.
Not from the stairs. Not from a doorway. Just appears. One second I'm alone, and the next, he's directly in front of me like some drama-loving phantom.
He doesn't say hi. He doesn't wave. He doesn't ask if I found the place okay.
No.
Mateo does the most Mateo thing possible.
He pins me to the wall with one hand planted beside my head and his body leaning far too close. His face hovers just inches from mine, his eyes scanning me like I'm a puzzle he's already halfway solved.
Without saying a word, he reaches out and gently wipes the blood from my lip with his thumb.
"You're late," he murmurs, voice low and way too smooth.
And just like that—my heart forgets how to function.
Oh, sweet merciful Jesus.
Mateo is standing so close to me now that I can smell the liquor lingering on his breath, it's sharp, warm, and uncomfortably intimate. His body heat wraps around me like a second skin, and my brain decides this is the perfect moment to completely short-circuit. There's a sudden, traitorous tightness building in my jeans, and I silently curse my own biology.
Seriously? This? Right now?
I grit my teeth and try to will it away, chanting I am not enjoying this, I am not enjoying this, over and over in my head like a prayer. Because there's absolutely no way my body should be reacting like this to a guy who's basically bullying me while being… annoyingly hot.
"W-what?" I blurt out, my voice cracking as badly as my composure. I know what he said—you're late—but the part of my brain responsible for witty comebacks and coherent sentences has apparently gone offline.
I can't even figure out if I want this weird, charged moment to continue or end right here. A big part of me is screaming for him to just back off and talk about anything else. Weather. Sports. Calculus. Literally anything that doesn't involve him being inches away from my face.