Chapter 1

By the time Sophie Bennett realised Callum Reed had stopped listening to her, his hand was already too low on her back.

The party pressed around them in waves of heat, bass, and cheap lighting. Somebody upstairs was murdering an old pop song loudly enough to shake the ceiling while half the rugby boys shouted over each other near the kitchen island. The house smelled of spilled cider, cinnamon vape smoke, sweat trapped inside winter hoodies, and the sharp chemical tang of too much deodorant sprayed too late to matter.

Callum leaned closer to say something she didn’t catch over the music, his breath warm against her ear, but Sophie barely heard the words. Her attention had narrowed completely onto the weight of his hand and the slow, deliberate way his thumb kept brushing the waistband of her jeans, like the rest of him expected an invitation eventually.

She caught his wrist and moved his hand higher.

Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just enough.

Callum smiled at her lazily, like she had flirted with him instead of correcting him.

“Relax.”

There it was again.

Relax.

Sophie had started hating that word sometime around sixteen, when boys began using it to mean your discomfort is inconvenient for me.

“I am relaxed,” she said.

Callum tilted his head slightly, amused rather than apologetic. “You don’t look relaxed.”

“That’s because you keep trying to put your hand down my jeans.”

He laughed under his breath, genuinely entertained by her irritation. “Jesus, Soph. You act like I’m assaulting you.”

The sharpness of her own anger surprised her a little. Not because he wanted sex. Sophie wasn’t scandalised by sex anymore. She had slept with boys before. She liked sex when it actually felt mutual instead of negotiated. What exhausted her was this constant pressure underneath everything, boys acting as though every touch was the beginning of a debate they expected to win eventually.

“I said no.”

“Yeah, but like...” Callum shrugged carelessly, his grin widening slightly. “Playful no.”

For a second she simply stared at him.

Around them, people shoved past carrying drinks that sloshed over plastic cups onto the wooden floorboards. Somebody near the kitchen dropped a bottle hard enough to send glass skittering over tile while a cluster of girls shrieked and jumped backwards laughing. The music kept vibrating through the walls, loud enough that conversation felt less spoken than fought through.

Callum barely noticed any of it. His attention stayed fixed on her mouth instead of her face.

“Come upstairs with me,” he said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because you stopped asking and started steering, Sophie thought tiredly.

But she already knew trying to explain that would drag them into another circular conversation about mixed signals and vibes and whether she was “overthinking things.” Boys Callum’s age always seemed personally offended by the suggestion that they might need to pay attention to anything that wasn’t explicitly shouted.

“I don’t want to,” she said simply.

For half a second annoyance crossed his face before smoothing itself away again. Then somebody yelled his name from the other side of the room.

“Hang on,” he muttered, already turning away.

And just like that, he drifted back into the crowd.

Sophie stood there another minute pretending to watch people dance badly in the living room while embarrassment settled slowly beneath her ribs. Not heartbreak. Nothing dramatic enough for heartbreak. Just that dull humiliating feeling of realising somebody had wanted access to her more than they had wanted her.

Ten minutes later Callum reappeared near the stairs with another girl tucked against his side, his hand already planted low on her hip.

The speed of it made something inside Sophie quietly cave in on itself.

“Oh,” a voice beside her said. “That’s embarrassing.”

Sophie turned to find Mia Carter perched on the arm of the sofa beside her, balancing a plastic cup between both hands. Her eyeliner had smudged slightly at the corners, giving her the kind of sharp, messy prettiness she somehow carried better than people carried perfection.

“You came?”

“I was invited,” Mia said dryly, following Sophie’s gaze towards Callum. “Unfortunately so was every emotionally stunted bloke in the county.”

That dragged a reluctant laugh out of Sophie.

Mia watched Callum for another second, her mouth tightening as his hand slid lower against the other girl’s waist.

“He’s doing the low-back hand thing again,” she said with visible disgust.

Sophie traced one thumb around the rim of her cup. “He already tried the lower-back-and-then-some thing with me.”

Mia turned properly then, disbelief flashing across her face. “Seriously?”

Sophie gave a small shrug.

“God.” Mia leaned back harder against the sofa cushions, shaking her head. “I’m so tired of boys acting like touching you deserves a medal.”

Before Sophie could answer, the sofa dipped violently beneath another body.

Gemma Fletcher landed beside them in a gust of cold air, vanilla perfume, and visible irritation. Her blonde ponytail swung over one shoulder as she glared towards the kitchen like the entire party had personally offended her.

“Why does this house smell like wet hoodies and failure?”

“Josh Mercer made cocktails in a mop bucket,” Mia explained.

Gemma closed her eyes briefly. “I hate this generation.”

Sophie laughed again, softer this time.

Gemma noticed immediately. She always noticed things like that.

Her expression shifted as she looked between Sophie and Mia. “What happened?”

Without speaking, Mia tilted her head slightly towards Callum.

Gemma followed the gesture, saw him wrapped around the other girl near the stairs, and instantly looked offended on Sophie’s behalf.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“It’s fine.”

Gemma turned slowly to stare at her. “Do not insult my intelligence.”

Warmth flickered unexpectedly through Sophie’s chest despite herself.

Gemma stole Sophie’s drink, took one sip, and recoiled dramatically. “That tastes like disinfectant.”

“It probably is.”

Gemma handed the cup back with visible disgust before folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I swear boys our age think having abs counts as emotional depth.”

“That’s generous,” Mia muttered. “Half of them don’t even have abs.”

The corner of Gemma’s mouth twitched briefly, but her irritation didn’t disappear. Her eyes drifted towards the hallway where Lewis Kane stood surrounded by rugby boys, laughing too loudly at his own story.

Something in her face changed then. Not just annoyance anymore. Something more personal.

“You know what Lewis did tonight?” she asked.

Mia winced immediately. “Oh no.”

Gemma leaned back against the sofa with the exhausted anger of somebody replaying humiliation in real time. “He introduced me to his cousin as ‘the blonde one.’”

Sophie blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious.” Gemma let out a sharp incredulous laugh. “He literally forgot my name for a second. Just stood there going, ‘This is ... uh ... the blonde one.’”

“Oh my God.”

“And later,” Gemma continued, warming into the outrage now that somebody was listening properly, “he asked if I’d wear my cheer uniform to his cousin’s birthday next week.”

Mia stared at her over the rim of her drink. “Why?”

Gemma gave a humourless little laugh. “‘Because it’s hot.’”

The disgust in her voice sat heavier than simple irritation. Sophie knew Gemma well enough to hear what actually hurt underneath it. Lewis hadn’t wanted her because she was funny or clever or exciting to be around. He had wanted her because standing beside her made him feel important.