Bella’s POV

The bass from the music hit me before I even stepped inside.

It thudded in my chest like a second heartbeat, loud and unapologetic, setting the tone for what was waiting behind the half-open door. From the outside, the Green House didn’t look like much—just another student-rented duplex with paint-chipped walls, worn-out couches on the porch, and strings of haphazard fairy lights tangled across the front railings.

But inside… it was alive.

The moment I crossed the threshold, I felt swallowed by the energy—voices yelling over music, bodies moving in time with rhythm, perfume and sweat clinging to the air like perfume. Colored lights blinked against the ceiling, casting everyone in flashes of red, blue, and gold. Laughter erupted from the kitchen. Cups were passed from hand to hand like currency. It was loud. It was crowded. And I felt utterly out of place.

“What am I doing here?” I muttered under my breath.

Sandra, walking ahead of me in a figure-hugging crop top and ripped jeans that screamed confidence, turned back with a wide smile. “You’re living a little. That’s what you’re doing.”

I stayed near the doorway, instinctively folding my arms across my chest. “This doesn’t feel like my scene.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing my wrist and pulling me gently inside. “Don’t do that thing where you talk yourself out of a good time before it even starts. You’re here now. Just relax.”

I tried.

Really, I did.

But I couldn’t stop my eyes from scanning the room, feeling every unfamiliar face like a spotlight against my skin. Everyone here moved like they belonged—like they knew exactly where to stand, who to talk to, what to say. Girls were dancing with effortless grace. Guys were cracking jokes like they were auditioning for comedy specials. It was chaotic and beautiful in its own way, and I felt like a misplaced comma in a perfectly written sentence.

Sandra leaned toward me as we maneuvered through a group clustered near the kitchen. “There’s a cooler in the back. Want a drink?”

I hesitated. “Is there water?”

She laughed. “Yes, grandma. There’s water.”

She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me by the wall with my arms still crossed and my nerves dancing like electricity under my skin.

I felt like I was wearing the wrong skin.

I had spent over an hour picking out my outfit—a fitted black top, light-washed jeans, and a jacket I wasn’t sure I needed. I had even dabbed on some makeup, nothing dramatic, just enough to make my eyes stand out. Sandra had complimented me, told me I looked “mysteriously hot,” whatever that meant. But now, surrounded by girls with flawless lashes and glitter on their shoulders, I felt like a plain crayon in a box of neon markers.

Still, I stayed.

Something had pulled me here tonight. Not the music. Not the dancing. Not even the social chaos. It was the possibility—the slim, uncertain chance that I might finally see George.

I didn’t know what I expected, or if I even wanted to do anything more than look at him from across the room. But the idea of him—of seeing if the rumors matched the reality—was magnetic in its own right.

“Here,” Sandra returned, holding out a bottle of water and sipping from her own red cup. “Better?”

I took it gratefully. “Thanks.”

“You’re stiff,” she observed, bumping my shoulder playfully. “Loosen up a little. You look great. You don’t have to do anything. Just... be.”

I nodded, trying to absorb her words like courage.

She pointed toward the living room where more people were dancing and mingling. “Come. Let’s just hang out. No pressure.”

As we stepped further into the house, I began to relax—just a little. The beat of the music softened in my ears, no longer an attack but a pulse I could walk to. I started to notice the details: the guy trying to freestyle near the bar, the couple arguing in a corner but pretending to smile, the girl passed out in a beanbag with glitter still in her hair.

This was real. Messy. Loud. Alive.

And then… I saw him.

He was standing near the far wall, framed by a window that glowed from outside lights. A red cup in his hand. Head tilted slightly as he listened to someone talk, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either—just watching. Observing. Like he was in the room but not of the room.

George.

There was no mistaking him.

Tall. Broad shoulders wrapped in a simple black T-shirt that clung just right to his frame. He wore confidence like a second skin. His jawline sharp, his posture relaxed but alert, like a wolf in a room full of sheep. Even standing still, he seemed to take up more space than anyone else.

Sandra followed my gaze and grinned.

“Told you he’d be here.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My throat was suddenly dry. I took a sip of my water and stared.

“He’s talking to his friend Piers,” she added casually. “But he’s probably bored. George doesn’t really do crowds. He just shows up, makes an appearance, and dips.”

That sounds about right.

He didn’t seem like someone who needed attention. He was attention. Every girl in the room noticed him, even if they pretended not to. I watched as one tried to walk past him slowly, too slowly to be accidental, flipping her braids over her shoulder with a practiced motion. He barely glanced her way.

Something about that made my heart beat a little faster.

He was real.

Not just a name. Not just whispers and rumors. He was flesh and blood. Breathing the same air I was. And he looked… different from what I expected. Not softer, not kinder. Just deeper. Like there were miles behind his eyes that no one had ever traveled.

“Go talk to him,” Sandra said.

I blinked. “What?”

She nudged me. “Just go up and say hi.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said, flustered, “what would I even say? ‘Hey, I’ve been lowkey fascinated by you because of a bunch of vague rumors?’ No thank you.”

She laughed. “Fine, don’t say that. Just say hi. Ask about hockey. Ask about school. He’s a person, Bella, not a ghost.”

I looked at him again.

George shifted slightly, his gaze drifting across the room. For one terrifying moment, I thought he was going to look straight at me. I held my breath. But his eyes landed somewhere else, and the tension in my chest eased.

I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

But I wanted to be.

I clutched the bottle of water tighter and asked myself a question that had no clear answer:

How do you approach a mystery you’ve been building in your head for days?

How do you step into someone’s story when you don’t even know the first line of yours?

Sandra leaned in beside me, her voice teasing but warm. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I nodded slowly, never taking my eyes off him.

Whenever I’m ready.