Drunk is such an ugly word for such a soft feeling.

The world has gone liquid around the edges, colors bleeding into each other like a watercolor painting left in the rain. Lucas keeps appearing at my elbow with fresh drinks, his smile never faltering.

“You looked thirsty again,” he says, pressing another cup into my hands.

“You’re too good to me.” The words come out syrup-slow.

“Just taking care of my girl.” His hand settles on my lower back.

I scan the room through my tilted vision and find him immediately. Caleb stands alone in his corner, Jade nowhere in sight. She’s given up, dancing with some lacrosse player near the speakers.

Those blue eyes burn through the crowd like searchlights. Jealousy rises in my chest, ugly and familiar and impossible to swallow down. He spent weeks parading girls through our shared wall, and now he watches me like I’ve betrayed him.

I grab Lucas by the collar and pull his mouth to mine. The kiss is hard and performative, designed for an audience of one. I make sure my angle is perfect, make sure Caleb can see exactly what he’s missing.

Lucas responds with eager enthusiasm, his hands finding my hips. When I open my eyes, Caleb’s expression could level buildings.

“God, I’ve missed you these past few days.” Lucas’s breath is hot against my ear. “Let’s get out of here and find somewhere private.”

His hand finds mine and tugs toward the stairs. I follow because I want to want this. I follow because I need to prove that what happened with Caleb meant nothing at all.

The bedroom is dark and quiet when Lucas closes the door behind us.

His hands are on me immediately—confident and practiced, moving with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. He backs me toward the bed with steady pressure.

We’re kissing, and my drunk brain starts cataloging differences I didn’t ask to notice. Lucas’s mouth is softer than I imagined, gentler than the urgency I expected. His hands are careful but somehow impersonal, like he’s working through a checklist rather than touching someone he actually wants.

I find myself thinking about Caleb’s hand on my throat that summer in my bedroom. The intensity that radiated from every point of contact between us. How every single touch felt deliberate and consuming.

With Caleb, I felt devoured. With Lucas, I feel processed.

“You’re so incredibly beautiful.” He breathes the words against my neck. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.”

The words should thrill me, should spark heat low in my belly. They feel rehearsed instead, like lines from a script he’s memorized for this exact occasion.

His hands move to the hem of my shirt, fingers curling under the fabric. I let him lift it over my head because this is what I chose. He pushes me onto the bed, and his weight settles over me like a verdict I can’t appeal.

This is what I wanted, I remind myself desperately. This is the normal I’ve been chasing since that kitchen.

But his mouth is too wet against my throat. His weight presses down too heavy on my chest. My head is spinning, and the room won’t stop tilting around us.

“Lucas—” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

He doesn’t pause, mouth traveling down my collarbone with mechanical precision.

“Lucas, wait a second.” I push weakly at his shoulders. “Can we maybe slow down?”

“Relax, beautiful.” The words vibrate against my skin. “You know you want this.”

His hands move to my jeans, fingers working the button.

“No—Lucas, I need you to stop.” Panic begins clawing up my throat.

He doesn’t stop at all. His knee pushes my legs apart with firm insistence. Terror floods through me, sharp and clarifying despite all the alcohol in my system.

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