The party is already loud when we arrive. Bass thumping through the walls, bodies packed into every corner of Chris's house, the smell of cheap beer and expensive cologne mixing in the air.
Marcus's hand is tight around my waist, too tight perhaps. His fingers dig into my hip as he steers me through the crowd, nodding at teammates, stopping to chat with people I barely recognize.
I feel like an accessory on his arm, something to display and position for maximum visibility. Before we left, he insisted I wear his jersey—number twelve stretched across my back like a brand, announcing to everyone at this party exactly whose property I am. I told myself it was sweet when he handed it to me, but now the fabric feels like a collar.
"You look so fucking hot tonight," he murmurs against my ear, lips brushing its shell. "Every guy in this room is looking at you. But you’re all mine, baby…"
"Thanks," I whisper with a small smile, trying to make myself feel less than a pretty toy.
But when I try to shift away slightly, his grip only tightens. "Stay close to me, okay? I don't want anyone getting ideas."
I swallow the irritation climbing up my throat and let him lead me to the drink table.
Three drinks in, the edges of the room start to blur. Marcus is deep in conversation with some guys from the football team, his arm still locked around me like a seatbelt. I tune out their voices and let my gaze drift across the room.
That's when I see Ethan. Leaning against the far wall, beer in hand, and listening to something a teammate is saying.
He's wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest in ways I shouldn't notice. His jaw is sharper than it was in high school, arms are thicker and full of hard muscles.
Apparently, everything about him is more—more defined, more intense, more mature.
More dangerous.
And the alcohol makes it impossible to look away.
When he glances up and our eyes meet across the room, heat floods through my chest, down my spine, pooling somewhere I refuse to acknowledge.
But he doesn't give his usual warm smile. Just holds my gaze with that quiet intensity that used to make me feel like the only person in the world.
I look away first, feeling my face is burning.
"You okay?" Marcus's voice cuts through the haze. "You look flushed."
"Just warm, too many people. I'm fine."
But I'm not fine.
I'm drunk and my ex-boyfriend is across the room looking like an Olympic god, and my body is reacting in ways my brain cannot control.
I sneak another glance and mention Ethan has moved closer to the makeshift dance floor. Someone hands him a shot and he throws it back, his throat working as he swallows.
I watch the movement like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.
God, he got hotter. Much so. It's unfair and infuriating and ridiculous that I mention.
In high school he was beautiful in that easy boyish way—all soft edges and easy smiles. Now he's carved from something harder. The softness is still there in his eyes, but everything else has sharpened into angles and muscle and quiet power.
"Harper." Marcus tugs my arm. "I asked you a question."
"Sorry. What?"
His eyes narrow, following my gaze across the room. When he sees Ethan, his jaw tightens in that familiar way, and I feel the shift in his energy immediately—the jealousy coiling like a snake ready to strike.
"You're staring at him." His voice drops, an edge creeping in.
"I'm not, baby." I step closer, pressing my palm flat against his chest, forcing his attention back to me. "I was just zoning out—you know how I get when I've been drinking. There's only one guy I'm thinking about tonight, and he's standing right in front of me."
His jaw stays tight, unconvinced, so I rise on my toes and brush my lips against his ear. "You look so good in that shirt, it's driving me crazy. Why don't we find somewhere private? Second door on the left, upstairs—I'll be waiting for you."
His expression softens into something hungry, possessive. "Yeah?"
"Ten minutes." I kiss his jaw, already stepping away. "Don't make me wait too long."
If I can lose myself in Marcus tonight, maybe I can forget Ethan exists entirely.
He releases me and turns back to his football friends like nothing happened. I stand there for a moment, unsteady on my heels, my head swimming from alcohol and adrenaline.
The hallway is dark and quiet when I find the second door, push it open and slip inside. The room is someone's bedroom—posters on the walls, unmade bed, the faint smell of cologne that isn't Marcus's.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady my breathing.
Ten minutes. I can survive ten minutes.
The door opens behind me and I say without turning around. "That was fast. Couldn't wait to get a piece of me?"
Footsteps cross the floor before I feel the presence behind me, warm and solid. "And If so?"
My blood turns to ice. That voice. Not Marcus.
I spin around and there’s Ethan standing in the doorway, backlit by the hall light with an unreadable expression.
"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out too high when I practically jump off the bed in his direction.
"I saw you come up here looking upset." He steps closer. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. And you need to leave, now. Marcus is gonna be here any second."
"Your ass-boyfriend is downstairs picking a fight with one of the linebackers." He moves closer still, and I can smell him now—soap and something warm underneath. "I don't think he's coming anytime soon."
"Ethan." I stand up, backing away, but my legs hit the bed frame. Nowhere to go. "This isn't… We can't."
"Can't what?" He stops inches from me. Close enough to touch, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in his throat. "Can't talk? Can't be in the same room?"
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" His hand comes up slowly, giving me time to pull away before his fingers brush my jaw, feather-light and devastating. "Because right now… I don't know anything except that you've been watching me all night."
"I haven't—"
"You have." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "The same way I've been watching you."
I should push him away and I plant my hands against his chest to do exactly that—and feel his heart pounding beneath my palms. Racing, frantic, completely out of control. Just like mine.
"Do you remember how it was with us?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in ways Marcus has never been. "Because I can't fucking forget, Harper. I've tried for three years and I can't get you out of my head."
"Ethan, stop—"
"It pisses me off, watching you with him." His hand slides up my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Watching him grab you like you're something he owns. Watching you flinch when he touches you in front of people."
"I don't flinch." But my voice wavers, betraying me.
"You looked at me tonight the same way you used to." His forehead drops to mine, breath hot against my lips. "Like you remember exactly how good we were together. Like your body never forgot what I can do to it."
I want to deny it, but I'm thinking about Marcus—about last week, last month, the last year of faking it beneath him, chasing a release that never comes no matter how hard I try. Ethan used to make me fall apart with barely a touch.
"Tell me to leave," he says quietly. "Mean it, and I'll go."
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Three years of walls crumble the moment his mouth meets mine—hot, desperate, tasting like whiskey and everything I've been denying myself. My hands find his hair, his arms crush me against him, and the sound I make would embarrass me if I could think straight.
Marcus's voice rises from downstairs, arguing with someone, but Ethan just smiles—devastating and wicked.
"We have time." His thumb strokes my hip. "What do you think?"