The bass thrums through Jake's mansion like a heartbeat, each pulse making the crystal chandeliers tremble. Nate sinks deeper into the Italian leather couch, watching bodies writhe across the marble floors. This was supposed to be their usual Friday thing—just the core five, maybe a few extras. But word got out, the way it always does when the Woodlands are out of town, and now the place is crawling with what feels like half of Riverside's junior class.

Jake holds court in the center of it all, his movements liquid with expensive whiskey as he grinds between two junior girls Nate vaguely recognizes from student council. The sight makes his stomach turn, especially now, with Amber's text burning like acid in his mind:

I think Jake tried to force himself on Hannah during Halloween.

His fingers hover over his phone. U sure?

Amber's response is instant, like she's been waiting:

Hannah told Lisa.. That's why she won't let this go. Why she's so fucking obsessed.

Nate's gaze finds Jake again, trying to reconcile two versions of the same person: the boy who taught him to throw a ball, who cried when Nate broke his arm in seventh, who's had his back through every triumph and disaster since kindergarten. That Jake—his best friend, his brother—feels impossibly far from this new image trying to take shape.

He knows how girls can be these days, with all that Me Too stuff flooding social media. One awkward move, one misread signal, and suddenly you're branded a predator. But four girls? Rachel, Lisa, Emily, and now Hannah—that's beyond coincidence. Even accounting for drama and exaggeration, the pattern's becoming impossible to ignore. How many more shadows is Jake casting that Nate's refused to see?

"Yo, Brooks." Jeff Thompson's voice cuts through his spiral as the linebacker drops onto the couch beside him. "Looking philosophical as fuck over here."

Nate manages a laugh that doesn't sound completely hollow as Jeff pours electric blue Gatorade into his red solo cup. "Just thinking about plays."

"On a Friday night? Damn." Jeff raises an eyebrow, taking a sip from his own cup. "Though I guess that's why Stanford's got eyes on you. Speaking of which—you're staying clear too?"

Nate lifts his Gatorade in confirmation. "Can't fuck around when scouts might call. One viral video of the wrong party trick and there goes four years of work."

"Tell me about it." Jeff's expression turns serious. "FIU's sniffing around. Coach thinks I might have a shot at quarterback."

"For real?" Nate sits up straighter, genuine interest breaking through his dark thoughts. "Jeff Thompson, breaking barriers. First Riverside player in FIU history?"

"Maybe." Jeff's grin is equal parts pride and nerves. "Nothing official yet, but..."

"You'd kill it," Nate says, meaning it. "Better arm than half the starters in our division."

"Yeah, well." Jeff's eyes drift to where Jake's now doing body shots off some sophomore's stomach. "Some of us didn't have daddy dearest donate a whole stadium to secure our starting position."

The words hang between them, sharp with truth that nobody usually voices. Nate takes another sip of Gatorade, buying time. "Jake's good though."

"Man's got a point," Jeff chuckles, watching Jake command the impromptu dance floor. "Boy might be born with a silver spoon, but he knows how to use it. Hell of a quarterback, better party thrower."

Nate forces a smile, but Amber's text pulses in the back of his mind like a warning beacon. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, loaded with uncomfortable truths he's not ready to face.

"Everything cool with you and the queen bee?" Jeff asks, too perceptive for Nate's comfort. "You've been checking your phone like it might explode."

"Yeah, you know how Amber gets." Nate shrugs, aiming for casual. "Speaking of relationships—you and what's her name? That cheerleader?"

"Quincy?" Jeff snorts. "Nah, man. That ship sailed. Besides," he takes another sip of his Gatorade, "college is where the magic happens. No point getting tied down now."

The couch suddenly dips dramatically as Justin Moore launches himself between them, nearly spilling their drinks. "My favorite motherfuckers!" he announces to no one in particular, spreading his arms wide like he's embracing the whole room.

"Jesus, Moore," Jeff laughs. "Did you smoke the entire senior class's supply?"

"Listen—" Justin starts, then completely loses his train of thought, blinking owlishly. "Wait, what was I saying?"

"You were about to tell us how you're absolutely crushing it at being sober," Nate teases.

Justin dissolves into a coughing fit that sounds suspiciously like laughter. "Blame Morticia Adams, man. Alex's got that premium shit. Like, pharmaceutical grade or something." He slumps against Jeff's shoulder, eyes already at half-mast. "I can taste colors."

"You can what now?" Jeff asks, but he's grinning as Justin practically purrs against his letterman jacket.

"Don't judge me," Justin mumbles. "I'm having a spiritual experience."

Nate's phone vibrates. Amber: U having fun?

The sight of these two—his teammates, his friends—trying not to laugh as Justin attempts to explain the deep philosophical meaning of Doritos is too good to pass up. "Hold that thought," Nate says, pulling up his camera. "This needs to be documented for posterity."

The resulting selfie is perfect in its imperfection: Nate and Jeff sporting matching grins in their Riverside blue letterman jackets, while Justin sprawls between them looking absolutely transcendent. Three brothers in arms, caught in a moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.

Look at this mess 😂, he texts Amber with the photo attached.

Her response is immediate: OMG is Moore okay? 💀

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Apparently Alex Winters is expanding her business model, Nate replies, adding a skull emoji. Our boy's gone full enlightenment.

Alex Winters??? The reply comes fast. She's there???

Nate glances through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spotting Alex's distinctive silhouette on the back patio. She's holding court in her usual spot by the infinity pool, smoke curling around her like she's conducting some kind of dark ritual.

Yeah, he types back. Outside by the pool.

He hasn't even hit send when three more messages from Amber light up his screen in rapid succession.

Nate.

Call me now.

Alone.

The urgency in those texts has him on his feet before he even processes moving. "You good with him?" he asks Jeff, nodding toward Justin, who's now humming what might be the Pokemon theme song.

"Go," Jeff waves him off. "Moore and I are about to have a deep conversation about the meaning of life, aren't we, buddy?"

"The meaning is Doritos," Justin mumbles sagely.

Nate threads his way through the crowd, the bass becoming muffled as he heads toward the garage wing. Jake's father's study waits at the end of the hallway – all mahogany panels and old money confidence. The perfect place for private conversations about things that shouldn't see daylight.

Amber picks up on the first ring. "Baby?"

"What's wrong?" he asks, closing the study door behind him. "Are you okay?"

"Listen to me very carefully." Amber's voice has that razor-sharp edge he recognizes from crisis moments. "Alex Winters? She's working with Hannah. She knows about... you know what."

The words hit like ice water in his veins. "Alex? How—"

"Lisa overheard them at Edison," Amber cuts him off. "She was there when they were plotting. She texted me and Susan immediately – they were talking about everything. About you know where."

"So you're saying..." Nate's mind races to connect dots he doesn't want to see.

"She's there for a reason, Nate." The steel in Amber's voice could cut glass. "This isn't some random party appearance."

"Fuck." He runs a hand through his hair, pacing between leather-bound volumes. "Should I—"

"Watch her," Amber commands. "Don't let her out of your sight."

"Yeah, I will." He hesitates, remembering her earlier text. "About Hannah, what you sent before—"

"Later, okay?" The edge in her voice softens slightly. "One crisis at a time."

"Sure." He stops pacing, staring at his reflection in the study's darkened windows. "You doing okay?"

"I'm with the girls. Susan, Lisa, Charlotte – we're having a strategy session slash sleepover thing at Susan’s." Her voice softens, losing some of its earlier edge. "Wish you were here though."

"Yeah?" Despite everything, Nate feels himself smile. "Even with all the face masks and rom-coms?"

"Especially then. You know you're cute when you pretend to hate The Notebook."

"I don't pretend, princess. That movie is emotional terrorism."

"Your secret's safe with me, baby." There's a pause, voices murmuring in the background. "I should go – Susan's threatening to start without me."

"Go be queen bee," he says softly. "We'll figure everything else out tomorrow."

"Promise you'll be careful tonight?"

"Always am. Love you, princess."

"Love you more."

The call ends, leaving Nate alone with his reflection and the weight of too many secrets. He slides his phone back into his pocket, feeling the walls of Jake's father's study closing in like a trap. Somewhere outside, Alex Winters is spinning webs that could destroy everything they've built.

Fuck the rumors, Nate thinks, pushing through the crowded living room. Jake needs to know. Now.

He nearly collides with Sarah Matthews coming around a corner, her red solo cup sloshing dangerously close to her white crop top.

"Whoa there, superstar," she steadies herself with a hand on his chest. "Looking for your other half?"

"You seen Jake?"

"God, you two really are joined at the hip, aren't you?" She smirks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "It's kind of adorable, actually. The bromance of the century."

"Sarah." His voice carries an edge that makes her playful smile falter. "Jake. Where?"

"Pool house," she gestures vaguely toward the back doors. "Someone brought some primo stuff, apparently."

Nate's already moving past her when she calls out, "Brooks? You good?"

"Yeah," he tosses over his shoulder, not breaking stride. "All good."

The night air hits him like a wall as he steps outside, still carrying that late-February bite that hints at spring but clings to winter's edge. Light spills from the infinity pool's underwater LEDs, casting everything in an ethereal blue glow. Through the crystalline water, he spots them – three figures lounging on the absurdly expensive patio furniture Jake’s mother had imported from Italy.

Alex reclines like some dark queen on her throne, smoke curling from her black-painted lips. Jake and Morris flank her like devoted subjects, passing what's definitely not a regular cigarette between them.

"Woodland!" Nate calls out, trying to keep his voice steady.

"BROOKS!" Jake's face splits into a grin too wide for sobriety. "My brother from another! Get over here – Alex brought that good-good."

"How much have you smoked?" Nate asks, studying Jake's glassy eyes.

"This ain't your regular high school shit," Alex interrupts, her voice carrying that particular tone that somehow manages to sound both bored and superior. "This is premium grade, baby."

"Facts," Morris nods sagely, like he's just imparted great wisdom.

"Jake." Nate presses, ignoring them both. "How much?"

"Why so uptight, Brooks?" Jake stretches like a satisfied cat. "First hit, I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die." He makes an exaggerated crossing motion over his chest.

"Need to borrow you for a minute."

Jake's eyes meet his, and something shifts in their depths. It's a look Nate knows better than his own reflection – the same one they share across the field when a play's about to go sideways, the one they exchanged that night at you-know-where, the one that passed between them when Jake was nearly expelled last year until Nate provided his carefully constructed alibi.

"Duty calls," Jake announces, rising with practiced grace that betrays years of functioning under various influences. "Vanderbaan, keep our dark lady entertained, yeah?"

They move in sync toward the perfectly manicured hedges that shield the Woodland estate from prying eyes. Each step takes them further from the pool's blue glow, deeper into shadows that feel appropriate for the conversation to come.

When they're safely hidden under the darkness of the towering hedges, far enough that even the music feels like a distant pulse, Nate runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry about the third degree back there. Had to make sure you weren't going to go paranoid on me with what I'm about to tell you."

"What's wrong?" Jake's glazed eyes sharpen with concern. "Amber okay?"

"She's fine, she's fine." Nate glances over his shoulder, scanning for shadows that might be listening. "But listen – Morticia back there? Alex? She knows."

"Knows what?" Jake's voice drops to match Nate's whisper.

"Lisa overheard her and Hannah at Edison." The words taste like copper on his tongue. "They were talking about... that night. The one we don't discuss. They're working together, Jake. And Alex showing up here? It's not a coincidence."

The silence between them stretches like a rubber band about to snap. Jake's face, usually so practiced at maintaining its carefully crafted mask, shows a flash of something that looks dangerously close to fear.

"Shit." The word falls from Jake's lips like a stone. "Shit, man."

"Keep your voice down," Nate hisses. "We need to play this smart. She's here for a reason, watching every move you make."

A smile curves Jake's mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What's she gonna do? Turn me into a frog? Cast some dark magic shit?"

"Don't." Nate grabs his arm, forcing Jake to meet his gaze. "That girl is smarter than anyone gives her credit for. And she's got nothing to lose."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning tonight needs to be perfect. No slip-ups. No opportunities. Nothing she can twist into ammunition." Nate releases his grip but maintains eye contact. "I mean it, Jake. Not a single moment she can use against you."

Jake's eyes drift back toward the pool house where Alex's silhouette remains enthroned among her admirers. When he looks back at Nate, some of his usual bravado has returned. "Okay. Yeah. I promise."

They complete their handshake – the same one they've been doing since sixth grade, when life's biggest crisis was getting caught passing notes in Mrs. Peterson's class. Left hand, right hand, bump, snap. A rhythm as familiar as their own heartbeats.

As they start walking back, Nate keeps his voice casual. "You remember what you said in Aspen? About your dad's security sweeps?"

"The military-grade bug detectors?"

"Might not be a bad idea to run one tomorrow. Just to be safe."