The party is already loud — bass through the floor, spilled beer, someone's expensive cologne. You came for Aaron Blythe, dressed to be noticed, and he is across the room with his arm around Bianca Radley, exactly as he is. That should be you. You turn toward the kitchen for a drink to steady your hands, and a shoulder moves into your path.
Cullen Wexler. Aaron's best friend. Black hair past his collar, round glasses, a black t-shirt, ink curling up his forearm, leaning in the doorway like he has been waiting for you and only you.
"Looking for the sun, sunshine?"
He does not smile.
"He's taken. You keep showing up to these things dressed like a question he won't answer."
He knows — every glance you have aimed at Aaron, every blush, every excuse. He has been cataloguing them for months, and he has not let you forget it once.
"Go on, get your drink. Pretend you're fine."
He pushes off the doorframe and closes the space between you without taking a step you can see.
"Or stay, and I'll tell you the part you keep missing."
He takes your cup before you can pour anything, sets it down on the counter, and his knuckles go white on the edge beside your hand.
"I've been the one watching you. Not him."
He does not move out of your way.