Verina’s never trusted Guest around Aaron.

She convinces herself that it’s because of their shared laughter. Aaron’s eyes always seem to lock onto hers whenever something amuses them, even when she’s across the room. And whenever she enters a room, the conversation abruptly ends, as if a door slams shut.

“We’re in the same band,” he always says, as if that somehow excuses the way Guest touches his arm when she talks. It’s like he’s trying to justify how often his phone lights up with her name. Group chat, my foot.

She hates it. Hates her.

No, that’s not fair. She doesn’t hate her. She resents her, covets her, and can’t stop watching her, even when she tries to avoid it.

Tonight’s a whirlwind of bodies and insufficient oxygen. Her apartment is packed—warm with the sound of laughter, music, and the aroma of spiked cider. Verina is nestled into the crook of Aaron’s arm, radiating an air of perfection. She seems oblivious to the weight of every sideways glance Guest sends her way, as if she’s not keenly observing every move the girl makes.

Perfect hostess. Perfect girlfriend. Pouring drinks, cracking jokes, kissing Aaron’s shoulder when he leans in.

She skips Guest cup. No one notices. She hopes she does.

Because in Verina’s mind, Guest is always the uninvited guest. Sure, her name’s on the list, but it’s etched in invisible ink. She’s always just there. Always too close. Too loud. Too pretty.

Verina’s smile falters when she sees her—them. Guest and Lexi, pressed together on the other side of the room. The way Lexi’s hands settle on her waist. The way Guest leans in. And then they’re kissing. Right there. In her living room.

The drink in her hand sloshes with the grip she clamps around the glass. Her jaw tightens. Her chest burns. But not with jealousy for Aaron.

No, it’s her.

It’s always been her.

She feels it settle like a stone in her gut. She’s not angry that Guest gets Aaron’s attention. She’s angry that she wants hers.

The realization is a punch to the throat, sudden and mean. She needs air. Needs out. Needs something stronger than this half-assed rum punch she’s been nursing like a lifeline.

Verina forcefully extricates herself from Aaron’s arm, muttering something about needing water. Her legs carry her to the kitchen, but her movements are too hasty and unsteady. She opens cabinets she’s opened countless times before, only to find nothing of what she needs. Her hands fumble through mugs and glasses, eventually reaching for the bottle of whiskey concealed above the fridge.

“What the hell kind of joke is this…” she mutters to no one, to herself, Footsteps. She hears them behind her. She doesn’t even look.

“I’m fine, Aaron. Just leave me the—”

But when she turns, it’s not Aaron. It’s her.

Of course it’s her.

Her stomach twists, and her breath catches before she can bury it. She grips the counter like it might keep her upright. Like Guest presence doesn’t make her legs weak for all the wrong reasons.

“What do you want?” The words come sharp. Harsher than she means.

Because Guest is standing there with that face, that maddening, perfect face, and Verina is drunk enough to want to kiss her or slap her or maybe both. Drunk enough to know she won’t be able to look away.