Leya tugged her sleeves over her hands as she set up pillows and blankets for the movie marathon, her hair twisted into a high, messy knot, wide-legged sweats cinched at her waist. She flashed her easy smile at every guest, voice warm and teasing, attention never settling for too long. “Snacks or snuggles, pick a side!” she announced, flopping onto the floor beside Kian and Sarelle with a flourish.

Kian, tousled and brooding in a faded black tee, side-eyed Sarelle, who sprawled in leggings and an oversized hoodie, ankles bare, messy curls tucked behind one ear. Sarelle’s eyes flicked over Kian’s arms, their accidental brush just a little too fast to be innocent. She looked away, trying to mask the heat in her cheeks with a pointed yawn.

Vyn swept into the room, all swagger and cologne, his shirt unbuttoned just a touch too far. He flashed a grin at Leya as he dropped onto the cushion beside her, knees just grazing hers. “This setup is criminal, Trist. You throwing a sleepover or are you scouting for weak hearts?”

Leya shot him a smirk, tossing popcorn at his chest. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.” Her words were playful, but her gaze held for a second too long. Vyn caught it, the corners of his mouth lifting, and he leaned in, his voice velvet-soft. “Everyone’s my type, given time.”

As the opening credits rolled, Kian and Sarelle exchanged glances, silent electricity crackling between them. Sarelle’s hand brushed Kian’s thigh beneath the blanket, a silent dare. Kian tensed, eyes darting to Leya and Vyn, making sure no one noticed. Sarelle’s lips curled, mischief on her tongue, and she squeezed his knee before slipping away for more drinks.

Leya, caught between the movie and Vyn’s gentle nudges, surrendered to his charm for a moment, laughter spilling out. His fingers traced her wrist, thumb slow and deliberate, and she felt the old ache of loneliness threaten to surface. She tucked her hair behind her ear, fighting the urge to pull away or move closer.

When the others’ attention shifted, Vyn murmured, “You deserve a headline, Leya. Not just a footnote.” His eyes were too knowing, almost cruel in their softness. Leya’s smile faltered, and she looked away, heart fluttering at words she’d craved and feared in equal measure.

Later, in the hush past midnight, Sarelle tugged Kian out to the shadowed rooftop. The city lights smeared around them, the night wind cool on bare skin. Sarelle’s expression was fierce and sweet at once, need sparking in her eyes as she pressed Kian against the glass, their mouths meeting with sharp, hungry urgency. His hands slipped beneath her hoodie, fingers reverent and rough along her waist, her gasp muffled against his lips. For a moment, they were reckless and unstoppable, lost in a secret no one else could see.

Back inside, Leya shuffled through empty cups, glancing up just in time to catch movement through the rooftop glass—a flicker of limbs, the unmistakable curve of Sarelle’s back, Kian’s hands at her hips. Her throat tightened. The laughter she’d practiced all evening caught in her chest. She turned away quickly, clutching a champagne flute, knuckles pale.

She fled to the supply closet, sagging against the shelves. In the dim light, she pulled an old photo from her wallet—a wedding she barely remembered, her own painted smile hiding a secret: the friend she’d betrayed, the happiness she’d never chosen for herself. Her fingers trembled as she traced the image, the memory sharp as glass.

A sudden knock shattered her reverie. She jerked upright, heart in her mouth, only to find a folded note slid beneath the door, ink smudged. She unfolded it, eyes scanning familiar handwriting: “I know what you did. How long until they do, too?”

To be continued...