I was sitting on the edge of my bed when Dylan threw a hoodie at me.

“Put that on. We’re going out tonight.”

I caught it in my lap, confused. “Where?”

“Party. Off-campus. Don’t worry, it’s not like the last one,” he added, already checking himself in the mirror. “This one’s small. Chill. You’ll be fine.”

Megan was on his bed, legs crossed, painting her nails a deep red. “You’ll have fun,” she said, not looking up. “It’ll be good for you.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t feel like I had the right to.

And maybe, if I was good, I’d get something in return.

It had been two days since Dylan gave me anything from the brown bottle.

He hadn’t said why. He didn’t even acknowledge it.

But the pressure in my head had started building so loud I could barely think straight anymore.

Every thought twisted too fast, too sharp, turning over itself until my chest hurt.

My arms ached like I’d been holding tension for hours without noticing.

My skin wasn’t itching—my brain was.

“Can’t I just stay here?” I asked, quieter now.

Dylan turned to me, smile soft but tight. “You could. But then I’d have to cancel my night too. You don’t want to ruin that for me, do you?”

I shook my head.

He stepped closer and brushed my hair out of my face. “Exactly. Be good tonight, and we’ll talk.”

That was enough to get me moving.

The party was exactly like the last one.

Loud. Crowded. Too many lights. Too many people crammed into a space that felt like it was shrinking the longer we stayed.

Music pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat, and every beat rattled behind my eyes.

We found a spot on the corner couch — Megan slid right into Dylan’s lap like she’d been waiting to do it all night. He let her, one arm draped casually over her thigh while his other hand toyed with his phone. I sat beside them, perched on the edge like furniture someone forgot to move out of the way.

I didn’t know anyone here.

Everyone around us looked relaxed — like they belonged in this kind of chaos. Like noise and heat and smoke were just background to their weekend. But all I could feel was my brain grinding against itself, my thoughts stretching tight like rubber bands ready to snap.

Dylan hadn’t offered me anything.

Not before we left. Not now.

Was he waiting for me to ask?

Was this another test?

I tried to breathe through it. Focus on anything else. But the more I sat there, the worse it got. My hands wouldn’t stop twitching in my lap. My jaw ached from clenching.

I kept my head down, letting the sounds blur together. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask for anything. I was just there — like a shadow Dylan brought with him.

Then someone stopped in front of me.

I didn’t look up until a voice cut through the noise — soft, smooth, and a little amused.

“You always sit this still at parties?”

I blinked and looked up.

It was him.

Tall. Long black hair. Same face from that apartment. The guy who gave me the package.

He had a drink in one hand and a lazy confidence that didn’t match the chaos around us. His shirt hung open over a tank top, layered necklaces catching the light just enough to make him seem deliberate.

“I don’t think we were introduced,” he said. “I’m Nico.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

He smiled slightly, like he didn’t mind.

“I know who you are, though,” Nico added. “You’re the quiet one.”

Dylan didn’t say anything beside me.

But I felt his hand slide up my back, just enough to remind me he was there. Watching.

I nodded once, barely.

Nico tilted his head. “You want a drink or something?”

I shook my head.

He didn’t push.

“Maybe later,” he said. “I’ll be around.”

Then he walked away — just like that. Like he was planting a flag, not chasing anything.

I exhaled slowly.

Dylan leaned in close, voice low behind my ear.

“You’re doing great,” he murmured.

Megan giggled again, nuzzling closer to Dylan. 

I kept my eyes on the floor.

A few songs later, a girl pushed her way through the crowd and stopped right in front of us.

“Megan?”

She was short, with dyed green hair and glitter eyeshadow, wearing a black mesh top and heavy boots like she’d just come from a concert instead of a house party. Her expression was a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Megan blinked, confused at first — then smiled. “Oh my god. Riley?”

Riley didn’t return the smile. “You’ve been dodging my texts.”

Megan laughed, like it wasn’t that serious. “I’ve just been busy.”

Riley’s eyes narrowed. “Busy being someone’s puppet?”

That made Megan stiffen. Dylan didn’t even flinch.

“You really ditched everyone for him, huh?” Riley asked. “He’s got you acting like a Stepford wife.”

“That’s not fair,” Megan said, her voice tight now. “You don’t know him.”

“I know you,” Riley snapped. “And this isn’t you.”

Dylan finally looked up then — not angry, just amused. Like he’d seen this scene before.

“She’s free to make her own choices,” he said, voice calm. “Aren’t you, Meg?”

Megan nodded automatically. “Yeah. I am.”

Riley scoffed. “Whatever. When you wake up and realize who you used to be, maybe you’ll text back.”

She turned and disappeared into the crowd before Megan could respond.

Megan didn’t say anything after that. She just curled deeper into Dylan’s side like a kid clinging to a parent.

I stayed silent. But my pulse was ticking louder now.

Riley’s voice echoed in my head.

A puppet.

Someone else’s version of you.

Later, Nico came back.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just handed me a drink — something light and pink in a clear plastic cup. I didn’t ask what it was. I didn’t want to know.

“I figured you could use something to take the edge off,” he said softly.

I looked at him, then at the cup.

Then at Dylan.

Dylan didn’t even look up from whatever Megan was whispering in his ear. He just gave me a lazy thumbs up without turning his head.

That was all I needed.

I took the drink from Nico and nodded once.

He smiled again — not smug. Just easy.

Then he sat beside me, not too close. Just enough to be noticed.

He leaned back into the couch, elbow resting casually behind me, one leg crossed over the other. Like we were already friends. Like this was normal.

I kept my eyes low, cup clutched in both hands, sipping like it was a shield.

The music was too loud. The lights too sharp. But I was used to it now — the chaos humming in the background, like white noise I’d given up trying to fight.

Eventually, Nico leaned closer. Not enough to crowd me — just enough to be heard over the bass vibrating through the walls.

“You doing okay?” he asked, his tone light but sincere.

I nodded once.

“You’re not really the party type, huh?”

I shrugged.

That made him smile a little. “I get it. Sometimes I’m not either.”

We sat like that for a minute. Not saying much. Not needing to. I didn’t feel safe, exactly. But I didn’t feel like I needed to run either.

Then his voice softened. “If you want, we could head back to mine after this. Just to hang out. It’s quieter there.”

I stiffened. “I—I don’t think I should.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Because of Dylan?”

I didn’t answer.

Before I could say more, I felt a hand brush my shoulder.

Dylan.

“Go,” he said, voice smooth and low. “You’ve been good. You deserve a break. And I could use some alone time with Megan.”

Megan giggled behind him, curling a piece of hair around her finger.

I hesitated.

But Dylan didn’t.

He gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “I trust him. And he likes you.”

My chest twisted.

Still, I nodded.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

I stood.

So did Nico.

As we moved toward the door, I caught a glimpse of Lucas across the room. He wasn’t alone — a pretty girl with dark curls and a tight black dress was talking animatedly beside him, clearly trying to flirt. Her hand kept brushing his arm. She laughed at something he hadn’t said.

But Lucas wasn’t paying attention to her.

He was looking at me.

Our eyes locked.

His jaw clenched. His brow furrowed.

He saw Nico beside me.

He saw us leaving.

The girl touched his chest lightly, but Lucas didn’t even blink. His entire focus was on me.

I looked away.

And kept walking.

The cold night air hit me like a slap. I hadn’t realized how loud the party was until it was behind us — until the world outside felt too quiet, too wide, too real.

Nico walked beside me, hands in his coat pockets, humming something low under his breath. He didn’t seem drunk. Or nervous. Or even especially interested in talking.

But me?

My thoughts were screaming.

What am I doing?

Why am I doing this?

I don’t even know him.

I don’t know if I’m gay. I don’t know if he is. I don’t know if this is supposed to be something. I don’t even know what he wants.

And Dylan—

God, Dylan told me to go. Told me to make him happy. Told me I’d done good.

Was that the reward? Not the bottle. Not peace. Just… this?

My legs moved like they didn’t belong to me. Like my body was on autopilot, chasing the feeling of being “good” more than anything else. Even as my chest burned with panic, even as my stomach twisted.

Don’t ask questions. Just go. Be what they want you to be.

Nico didn’t say much, but every few steps he’d glance at me like he was checking to see if I was still there. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk. My fists buried deep in my sleeves.

We climbed a narrow staircase. Turned left. Stopped at a door I didn’t recognize, but that I’d seen once before — the night I picked up the package.

Nico unlocked it with one smooth motion and pushed it open.

“Come in,” he said.

I did.

Nico’s apartment was cleaner than I remembered — organized, minimalist, almost sterile in its simplicity. The soft lighting gave everything a kind of golden glow, warm and intentional. A couple of books stacked on the coffee table, a folded blanket on the couch, incense burning faintly in the corner.

It didn’t match the guy who’d handed me an unmarked envelope without blinking.

He shut the door behind me and locked it with a quiet click.

“You want to sit?” he asked, nodding toward the couch.

I didn’t answer, just moved slowly and sat at the edge of the cushion, fidgeting with my hands in my lap.

Nico walked past me and into the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want anything? I’ve got soda. Tea. Something stronger.”

I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

He came back with nothing, settling beside me — not too close, but not far either. Close enough to feel it.

For a minute, neither of us said anything.

Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“So…” he said lightly, “never kissed anyone?”

I didn’t answer.

He glanced over. “I’m not judging. Just trying to get to know you.”

I nodded, eyes still locked on my hands.

“You’re really jumpy,” he added.

“I’m just… tired,” I lied.

Nico was quiet. Then, softly: “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

I looked at him then — and he looked honest.

Still, my body didn’t believe it.

My head was screaming. My chest ached. My skin buzzed like I was full of static and couldn’t find a way to ground myself.

Nico shifted closer.

One of his hands reached out, slow and deliberate, brushing against mine.

“Can I?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t pull away.

So he leaned in.

His face was inches from mine now.

And before I could think—before I could stop it—his lips were on mine.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just real.

My heart stopped. Then slammed back into rhythm.

He kissed me again, a little deeper this time, his hand resting on my thigh.

I didn’t kiss him back.

But I didn’t move either.

My whole body locked up, too confused to run, too desperate to be good to stop.

Nico pulled back just enough to look at me. His hand still on my leg. His voice soft and calm.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

Even though I wasn’t.

He leaned in again.

And this time, as our lips met, his fingers moved — slow, careful — to the waistband of my jeans.

He began to unbutton them.