She pretended she didn’t care that I had barely spoken to her in a week. She pretended she didn’t notice the way my shoulders tensed when she touched me. She pretended she didn’t see the way my eyes searched the room for someone else.

Her red lipstick was still perfect, even after a drink or two, and every time she smiled, guys looked at her like they’d do anything just to be noticed by her.

She barely noticed.

She was too busy watching me.

I knew what she wanted. I’d known all night.

I could feel it—the expectation, the way her touches lingered, the way her body tilted toward mine, and the way her eyes flicked to my mouth every time I spoke. And that was the problem. Because it didn’t matter how many nights I spent with Sydney’s fingers tracing circles against my arm. It didn’t matter how much I tried to lose myself in someone else’s laugh, someone else’s smile, someone else’s warmth. None of it was enough.

None of it was Beverly.

I knew I wasn’t going to give Sydney what she wanted.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

I shifted my water bottle from one hand to the other, watching Jamal dramatically demonstrate some terrible dance move in the living room. Tiffany, already a bit tipsy, sat on the kitchen counter with a red solo cup in one hand, critiquing everyone’s outfits like she was hosting a fashion show. The whole thing felt hazy, like I wasn’t really here, just watching it from the outside. Like I could blink and be somewhere else. Like I could blink and be back in that hotel room with B’s arms around me, whispering, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

A soft, gentle touch on my wrist pulled me back to the present. Sydney appeared beside me before I could move, her lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.

She reached for my hand, her fingers curling around mine. “Having fun?”

I forced a small smile. “Yeah.”

She inched closer. “I’m really glad you came,” she murmured. “I know parties aren’t really your thing.”

“I told you I’d be here.”

She tilted her head up at me, her lips painted a shade of red that had probably taken her ten minutes to perfect. “Dance with me?”

I hesitated.

She caught it immediately. “Come on, Blake,” she coaxed. “Don’t make me beg on my birthday.”

I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair before nodding. “One dance.”

Her smile stretched wide.

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the living room, where the music was so loud I could barely think. Bodies moved around us, heat pressing in from all sides. Nice & Slow by Usher had just started playing, and I immediately regretted saying yes.