Chapter 1: The Dance Floor Decoy
The bass was a living thing, thrumming through the floorboards and up through the soles of Emily's worn-out boots. She pressed her back against the sticky wall, counting the seconds until she could reasonably escape this hellscape of red plastic cups and overpriced beer. Her roommate had promised a quiet get-together. A small gathering. What she'd walked into was a full-blown frat house rager, complete with a DJ who seemed to think the volume knob only went in one direction.
And then there were the twins.
They'd been orbiting her for the past forty minutes like particularly persistent satellites, their gym-brothered bodies moving in sync as they took turns leaning in too close and shouting things like "You're too smart to be standing alone" and "We could show you a real good time." They smelled like cheap cologne and desperation, and every time she shifted away from one, the other would materialize in her new line of sight, grinning with teeth that were too white and too straight.
"Come on, just one dance," the one on the left said, his hand finding her elbow with an unearned familiarity.
She yanked her arm back. "I'm good, thanks."
"You sure?" The other one, the slightly taller one, moved to block her path. "You've been standing here all night. We noticed."
Of course they noticed. They were vultures, and she was the only wounded animal in sight. Emily scanned the room, her heart rate climbing as she realized she'd let herself get boxed into the corner near the speaker stack. The bass rattled her ribs. The strobe lights painted everyone in disorienting flashes of blue and white. And the twins were closing in, their matching polo shirts a testament to their complete lack of originality.
"Look, we just want to get to know you," the left one said, and now his hand was on her shoulder, and something cold and sharp lodged itself in her throat.
She needed an out. A distraction. A miracle.
Her eyes swept the crowd, past the dancing bodies and the groups of laughing girls, past the dudes doing beer bongs in the corner, until they landed on a lanky figure pressed against the opposite wall. He was holding a red Solo cup like it was a lifeline, his free hand fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. His dark hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it all night, and his eyes—huge and brown and painfully expressive—were darting around the room with the frantic energy of someone who was mentally cataloging every possible exit.
He looked. So. Unassuming.
Which meant he was perfect.
Emily moved before she could talk herself out of it, ducking under the twin's outstretched arm and weaving through the crowd with a purpose she didn't know she possessed. She had maybe ten seconds before the vultures regrouped. Ten seconds to sell this.
The man was looking at his phone now, or pretending to, and she saw the way his shoulders hunched inward, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. She reached him just as he looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as she closed the distance.
She didn't give him time to react.
Emily grabbed the front of his hoodie, yanked him down to her level, and pressed her lips to his cheek. The skin was warm, slightly stubbled, and she felt him freeze beneath her touch. His breath caught, a sharp inhale that tickled her ear.
"Babe," she yelled over the music, pitching her voice high and bright. "You're late."
For one agonizing second, she thought she'd miscalculated. His eyes were huge, locked on hers, and she could see the gears turning behind them—confusion, surprise, maybe a hint of panic. They were sharing breaths now, her face inches from his, and she could smell him. Something clean and warm, like laundry detergent and faint, nervous sweat.
Then something shifted. His eyes sharpened, and she watched the panic smooth into understanding. His free hand found her waist, settling there with a surprising confidence, and he pulled her against his side like he'd been doing it for years.
"Sorry, babe," he said, his voice a little rough but carrying. "Traffic was a nightmare." He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she felt the ghost of his lips linger, warm and unexpectedly tender. "You ready to get out of here?"
Before she could answer, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Wait—Stiles?"
The twins had found them. Of course they had.
The one on the left was staring at the man—Stiles—with a look of comical disbelief. "Dude, no way. Stiles Stilinski?" He glanced at his brother, then back. "You're dating her?"
Stiles's grip on Emily's waist tightened, but his expression didn't crack. He tilted his head, a lazy smirk spreading across his face that was so at odds with his earlier nervous energy that Emily almost did a double-take. "Last time I checked, yeah. Why, you got a problem with that?"
The taller twin snorted. "Come on, man. We all went to high school together. We know you." He gestured at Emily with a dismissive wave. "There's no way you pulled someone like her. I mean you’re not even good at lacrosse."
Emily felt her eyebrows shoot up. The insult was aimed at Stiles, but it landed on her just the same. She watched Stiles's jaw tighten, saw the flash of something dark and defensive cross his face, and she knew—she knew—he was about to say something that would escalate this into a fight they didn't need.
So she beat him to it.
"Well." She let her voice drip with honey, stepping forward so she was half in front of Stiles, half still tucked against his side. She looked the taller twin up and down, slow and deliberate, then let her gaze slide to his brother. "I don't even know what lacrosse is," she said, her tone conversational, almost bored, "so my boyfriend doesn't need to be good at it." She turned her head, letting her eyes drag down Stiles's body with theatrical appreciation, then meet his gaze with a smirk that felt reckless and wild and free. "I promise you, he's plenty good at other things."
Stiles's mouth parted. His ears went red.
The twins exchanged a look, their confidence visibly cracking. The shorter one opened his mouth, closed it, then just shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him away.
Emily watched them go, her heart hammering so loud she was sure everyone in the room could hear it. Then she felt Stiles's hand close around hers, warm and calloused, and he was tugging her toward the door.
"Okay," he said, his voice pitched low in her ear as they pushed through the crowd. "That was either the hottest or the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. I haven't decided which yet."
She laughed, the sound startled out of her, and let him pull her through the front door and into the cool night air. The music faded behind them, the bass still thumping through the walls but muffled now, distant. Stiles didn't stop walking until they reached a beat-up blue Jeep, parked under a flickering streetlight at the edge of the driveway.
He fumbled with his keys, unlocked the door, and they both piled in, slamming the doors behind them with a simultaneous thud.
And then Emily burst out laughing.
It wasn't a polite laugh. It was a full-bodied, wheezing, tears-streaming-down-her-face kind of laugh, the kind that made her double over and grip her stomach. She couldn't stop. Every time she thought she had it under control, she looked at Stiles—sitting there in the driver's seat with his hands still on the wheel, his ears still red, his face a perfect mask of bewildered awe—and the laughter would surge up again, unstoppable.
Stiles watched her for a long moment. Then his own lips twitched. And before she knew it, he was laughing too, a breathless, disbelieving sound that filled the car and mixed with hers until they were both gasping for air.
"Oh my God," Emily managed, wiping her eyes. "Oh my God. You should have seen your face when I kissed you."
"My face?" Stiles sputtered, gesturing wildly at himself. "You basically tackled me! I thought I was being mugged by a really pretty—" He stopped, his mouth snapping shut as if he'd said too much.
Emily raised an eyebrow. "A really pretty what?"
"Nothing. Forget it. I said nothing." He turned the key in the ignition, and the Jeep roared to life, some classic rock station crackling through the speakers before he killed the volume with a decisive jab. He looked at her then, really looked at her, his gaze searching and curious and maybe just a little bit awestruck. "Okay, so. Not that I'm complaining—because honestly, that was the most fun I've had in weeks—but what exactly just happened in there?"
Emily leaned back in her seat, her laughter finally fading into a satisfied smile. She looked at him, at this strange, nervous, surprisingly quick-witted boy who had gone along with her impulsive lie without missing a beat. Something warm and unfamiliar fluttered in her chest.
"You," she said, "just rescued me from a very persistent pair of would-be threesome enthusiasts. And in exchange, I believe I owe you a beer."
Stiles blinked. Then he laughed again, shaking his head as he put the Jeep in gear and pulled out of the driveway, leaving the party and all its noise behind them.
"It's a deal," he said, and there was something soft and genuine in his voice that made Emily's stomach do a small, unexpected flip. "But just so you know, I'm gonna need details. All of them. Starting with why a girl like you was standing alone in a corner with a couple of human red flags, and how you ended up at this party in the first place."
Emily smiled, watching the streetlights blur past as they drove into the night. "That," she said, "is a long story."
Stiles glanced at her, a hint of something mischievous lighting up his eyes. "Good thing I'm not in a hurry."
And as the miles stretched between them and the party, Emily had the strangest feeling that she'd just stumbled into something she hadn't known she was looking for.