"No," I say, planting my feet. "Someone has to look out for him, and if you won't, then I will."

He sets the drink down with a sharp crack, leaning forward with intensity burning in his eyes. "I've spent my whole life looking out for him. Maybe he's right. Maybe it's time he sees how fucked up things really are."

"Fine." I cross my arms, steel in my spine. "Then I'll go after him myself."

He stares at me, frustration and something deeper etched into his features. Before he can argue, voices spill in from the hallway. Ollie, Mia, Camilla, and Marcus burst into the room, their laughter dying as they read the tension crackling in the air.

"Where's Jake?" Ollie asks, his grin fading as he takes in our expressions.

Nate leans back, voice flat as desert sand. "He left. Apparently, Farrah's more fun than we are."

Marcus perks up. "Shay and Harlow are throwing something tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where they were heading."

"Well looks like we’re going to a party then," Ollie says, already moving toward the door. "I'll drive!"

"No, you won't," Mia cuts in, planting herself in his path. "You've had too much already."

"I'm fine," Ollie protests, but Mia's stern look silences him.

"I'll drive," she declares, gesturing to Marcus and Camilla. "You three are coming with me."

"You two okay to ride together?" Camilla asks, glancing between Nate and me with knowing concern.

"I'm driving," I say quickly, before Nate can object.

He groans, rubbing his face. "Fine."

Mia shepherds her group out, and Nate pushes off the couch with deliberate slowness, like every movement costs him. At the door, he pauses and looks back. "Don't get your hopes up."

I don't reply because hope isn't what's driving me anymore. It's fear—fear of what Jake might do, fear of losing him, fear of everything falling apart.

The late afternoon air bites at my exposed skin as Nate unlocks the Range Rover and slides into the passenger seat. I start the engine, the dashboard casting an eerie glow across his face. He looks exhausted. I pull out of the driveway, the silence between us heavy with unspoken words.

What the hell are we about to walk into?

The party hits me like a wall of chaos—pure, unfiltered teenage rebellion ripped straight from a movie screen. Music thunders through the walls, making my ribcage vibrate. Bodies pack every corner like sardines, the air thick with the sickly-sweet smell of spilled beer and stale smoke. Red cups litter every surface, and the kitchen's a warzone of scattered liquor bottles and sticky counters. A couple is tangled against the wall in the living room, lost in their own world. A whoop echoes from upstairs, and I force my mind away from what that might mean.