Elliot’s POV:

The second we step inside, I’m hit with the kind of heat that clings to your clothes and dares you to pretend you’re not already sweating. The air smells like old beer, synthetic citrus, and someone’s very committed cologne. Somewhere deep in the house, a low baseline pulses under the floorboards.

Michael and Ethan break off to chase drinks. Danny mumbles something and disappears toward the back, presumably to stash the whiskey he has under his jacket and the Dr. pepper rattling around in his backpack.

I stay in the doorway a bit longer than I probably should.

The living room’s washed in blue and purple LEDs, and the lights cast a glow that makes everything look slightly unreal. I clock a sagging couch, a few people dancing, a guy fake-fainting into a beanbag chair to make someone else laugh. And then–

Noelle.

She’s wearing a deep blue top that dips low enough to make my mouth forget how to be a mouth and a black skit that;’s doing things to my nervous system. The lights skim over her bare shoulders, her throat, the tops of her thighs. My thoughts scatter, all loud and directionless. I try to pull one into focus and get as far as blue.

She walks toward the kitchen with her head down like she’s trying to pretend the house isn’t watching her.

But it is.

I am.

She weaves through the cluster of people. Right before she disappears into the crowd, she brushes her hair behind one ear. Her fingers linger there for a second like she forgot what to do with them.

She stops at the kitchen entrance. From here, I can’t hear what’s being said, but I can see it: a guy gets too close. He touches her shoulder. She shifts her weight and takes a half-step back.Her body language doesn’t scream “get lost,” but it doesn't say “come closer” either.

It’s Christian. Of course it’s Christian.

My jaw tightens.

I take one step forward before I even register that I’m moving. I don’t know what I’m planning to do. Cut In? Throw a drink? Challenge him to a duel? But before I can make it to the kitchen, someone else gets there first.

Danny.

He says something low and offhanded that makes Christian’s face twist. A second later, Noelle is turning and following Danny out onto the porch. She doesn’t look back.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and take a sip of my beer.

“Hey.” A girl’s voice cuts in from my left.

She’s tall, brunette. I think I recognize her. Chloe; she was on one of the second-year panels at orientation.

“You’re a first-year, right?” she asks as she tilts her head and smiles like she’s got me clocked.

“Yeah,” I say, “Elliot."

“Chloe,” she sips on the party’s jungle juice. “Which track are you on?”

“Screen-acting.”

She nods like she already knew and launches into a rundown of second-year gossip and technical drama; which lighting professor hates which director, how the Green Room got its liquor license suspended for a year, and why no one should take notes in Professor Bastille’s class. She talks fast.

I nod, throw in a few “yeahs,” but my brain is out on the patio. Wondering what Noelle’s drinking. Wondering if she’s okay.

“I love that shirt on you,” Chloe says, placing a hand briefly on my arm. “You’ve got the frame for it.”

“Oh.” I glance down, caught off guard. “Thanks.”

She holds my gaze for a beat, like she’s waiting for something else. When I don’t give it to her, she scans the crowd. “I think your friend Ethan just waved me over. I’m going to go say hi.”

I smile politely as she disappears into the mix.

I drift toward the edge of the room, somewhere between the speakers and the wall. Where no one else wants to be. I scroll on my phone for a bit. Nothing is news. My only notifications are a missed call from my mom and a meme from Michael.

And then I see her again.

Noelle’s back inside now. She and Harlowe land on the couch. I watch as they talk.

I try to look away. I do.

But then I look again.

And this time, Harlowe’s up. And she’s walking straight toward me.

“Hey stranger,” she says with a grin. “You know you can seduce your phone at home.”

I blink and chuckle. “Caught me.”

She leans closer. “I get it. It’s a lot sometimes.”

I nod.

She glances over her shoulder toward the crowd, then back at me. “It’s loud as shit in here. You wanna step outside?”

I nod again. “Lead the way.”

We walk out into the backyard, where the air’s cooler but still carries that end-of-summer stickiness. The porch lights cast everything in a yellow haze. There’s a beer pong game underway on the patio. Jason is doing his usual thing: giving way too much commentary, throwing out finger guns, and bowing every time he lands a shot.

And next to him: Noelle.

She’s got a red cup in one hand and a ping-pong ball in the other. Her concentration is laser-focused, brows drawn, tongue pressed slightly between her teeth. When she makes a shot, Jason claps like a proud dad. She laughs and bumps his chest with hers.

“I always end up talking about tarot at parties,” Harlowe says beside me, plopping onto the porch rail and adjusting her skirt. “It’s like…I open my mouth and suddenly everyone wants their fortune read like I’m a hot carnival psychic.”

I turn back to her. “And you don’t mind that?”

“Are you kidding? I live for it” She grins. “The cards always know. I mean, sometimes they lie a little. But, like, in a way that gets you to the truth, you know?”

I nod like I’ve absorbed every word. I’ve absorbed none of them. I’m too busy watching Noelle from the corner of my eye.

Jason says something dumb, judging by the grin on his face. Noelle shoves him lightly and laughs again. When she leans forward, her top shifts, and for one sharp, unfiltered second, I see the line of her chest. I see the soft curve of skin and the place her necklace dips out of sight.

I snap my eyes back to Harlowe.

She’s talking about how she once read tarot for her econ professor in undergrad and made him cry. I nod again and try to lock in.

She’s got this unfiltered, confident thing. Every sentence sounds like she’s halfway between ranting or performing a comedy bit. I actually like that about her. It’s just–

I can’t stop glancing back at the table.

Noelle’s drinking faster now. Her cup is nearly empty. She runs a hand through her hair and flicks her bangs out of her face. Jason leans in to say something and she smiles.

“You ever had your cards read?” Harlow asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I shake my head. “Nope. Don’t know how it works.”

“I could do it for you sometime,” she says casually. “It’d be fun.”

“You offering to read my tragic fate?” I tease.

She chuckles and shrugs. “Could be tragic. Could be hot. Depends on your deck’s energy.”

I huff a laugh. “I doubt that’s scientific.”

“It’s totally scientific. I’m peer-reviewed.”

Before I can respond, a voice cuts in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Noelle says.

I stiffen. Not visibility. Hopefully. But internally, something jolts to attention.

She's standing closer than I expected, her cup dangling from her fingers like she forgot she was holding it. Her eyeliner is slightly smudged, like she’s either been sweating or rubbing her eyes. I’m not sure why it feels weirdly intimate.

“Our ping-pong ball rolled under your chair,” she says.

“Under my chair?” I repeat like an idiot.

“Yeah, it’s…right under you.”

I shift forward. My hand brushes against sticky patio stone until I find the ball. When I sit up, she hasn’t moved.

I hold it out to her.

Her fingers brush mine.

It should be nothing. Just contact. A pass-off.

But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Her skin is warm, and it’s softer than I expect. She doesn’t grab the ball so much as wrap her hand around mine for a half-second longer than necessary. Not intentionally, I don’t think. But my hand remembers the shape of it anyway.

She looks up. Our eye catch.

It’s a half-second. Just a glance.

But I feel it in places I’ve spent the last five months trying to pretend were under control.

She’s still standing there like she might say something else.

“Thanks,” she says, and then, “I’ve already lost one ball to testicular cancer. Can’t afford to lose the other.”

It takes a second to register. It’s so unexpected. I don’t know whether to laugh or ask how she thought of that so quickly.

Then it hits me. Not just the joke, but the shift.

She’s covering. She’s pulling the rug out from under the moment we just had.

Even knowing that, I laugh. It comes out sharp, sudden. Real.

Not polite, not performative. Just…a crack in the surface. My shoulders shake with it.

She smiles. It’s like it’s this crooked little thing she wasn’t sure it would land, but now that it had, she’s letting herself hold on to this memory.

“Noelle!” Jason shouts from the other side of the patio. “We’re waiting. We’re close to victory!”

She starts to back away and almost trips on a red solo cup. I lean forward without meaning to, but she’s already steady again.

She thanks me again. And just like that, she’s gone.

I stand there without saying anything for a beat too long. It’s the kind of pause like you’ve missed something and can’t name what.

Jason’s bouncing when she gets back. He hands her the ball like it’s part of a secret plan.

She lines up her shot. She’s quiet, calm.

She shoots.

One clean arc. Direct hit.

The cheer that follows is instant. Some people actually fist-pump.

I shift my weight and realize my shoulder had gone tight.

Amelia comes out the back door with a tequila bottle. Noelle says something to her, passes her the ball, and steps back.

Amelia sinks it. Jason lifts her off the ground in a full-body bear hug while the small crowd goes wild.

Next to me, Harlowe whispers at her friend. “Show ‘em how it’s done, bitches!”

I laugh. “That was impressive.”

“Noelle gets scary when she’s locked in,” Harlowe says, watching the table. “But I think the people around her benefit from it.”

“I think it’s just a performance,” I say. “I mean, it is theater school.”

Harlowe smirks. “I don’t think you get it. I bet Noelle practices ping-pong drunk just in case. She’s insane like that.”

I huff a laugh, imagining Noelle getting drunk by herself just to practice shooting ping-pong balls.

When I turn back to the table, Noelle grabs the tequila bottle and tilts it back. It’s not a sip. It’s a pout.

She swallows, lowers the bottle, and smiles at Jason and Amelia. Except it’s too fast, and too stiff.

She glances toward the house and starts toward the door. No drama. Just…leaving.

The way she was drinking. The speed of her exit. It seems like anything performative is starting to slip.

It pulls at me.

I murmur something to Harlowe about needing water and head toward the kitchen, but inside, it’s worse. It’s louder, hotter, and packed with way too many people. Everyone is leaning over counters, yelling into each other’s face, and moving in waves.

I try the hallway next. The bathroom line is wrapped around the corner. Some guy is crying on the floor for reasons I don’t want to know.

Still no sign of her.

Eventually, I find myself back by the front door, standing under a burned-our bulb that buzzes faintly every few seconds. Michael is outside watching for the Uber. Danny and Ethan are a few paces behind me. They argue over whether Danny’s flask could be taken under “eminent domain” laws.

I step out onto the sidewalk. The air feels colder now.

Noelle never said anything else.

And I had all night to say something that mattered. But all I did was wait.

And now she’s gone.