The living room was chaos—music thumping, bodies swaying, and the thick smell of spilled beer and too much perfume clinging to the air. I scanned the room, clutching my can of sparkling water, and spotted Blake leaning against the wall near the speakers. He gave me a nod, his usual calm demeanor intact despite the madness surrounding him. Somehow, he always looked like he belonged without even trying, his arms crossed casually and his head tilted slightly as he observed the party.

"Seen Izzy?" I asked as I approached, raising my voice to be heard over the pounding bass.

He gestured toward the far corner of the room. "Last I checked, she was by the punch bowl. She's, uh... really embracing the spirit of the party."

That didn't sound good.

I sighed and followed his gesture, weaving through the crowd and dodging a guy holding two precariously stacked cups of punch. The further I moved into the room, the louder it seemed to get. Someone tripped over a speaker wire, sending a string of curses into the air, and a girl in an oversized sweater attempted what I think was supposed to be a cartwheel in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

Finally, I spotted Isabella, and my stomach sank. She was perched precariously on the arm of a couch, one foot dangling as she waved a neon red cup around like it was a royal scepter. Her blonde hair was disheveled, falling in waves over one shoulder, and her satin top had slipped down her arm. She was gesturing wildly as she talked to a group of equally intoxicated strangers, who were either too polite or too drunk to question her.

"And then I told him," she slurred, her voice loud enough to carry over the music, "if you want to be Blake-level handsome, you have to, like, drink water. Lots of water. Hydration is key."

The group burst into laughter, though I wasn't sure they even understood what she was saying. I groaned, stepping forward just as Isabella wobbled dangerously close to falling off the couch arm.

"Izzy," I said, grabbing her arm to steady her. "What are you doing?"

"Amber!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with recognition. She threw her arms around me, nearly spilling her drink in the process. The sticky, fruity smell of the punch hit me immediately, and I wrinkled my nose. "I was just telling them how amazing you are!"

"That's great," I said, trying to pull her back to a standing position. "But it's time to go."

"Go?" she repeated, pouting dramatically. "But I'm having so much fun! This party is amazing. Everyone is so nice."

"Amber?" Blake's voice came from behind me, and I turned to see him approaching, concern etched on his face. His golden-brown hair caught the faint light, making him look far more composed than anyone else in the room. He took one look at Izzy and raised an eyebrow. "Wow. She's... really going for it tonight."

"Understatement of the year," I muttered, struggling to keep Izzy upright as she swayed. "We need to get her out of here before she breaks something—or someone."

Blake stepped in without hesitation, taking her other arm. "Izzy, time to call it a night."

She turned to him, her pout quickly replaced by a wide, goofy grin. "Blake! You're here! You're, like, my favorite person. Did I tell you that?"

"Only three times," he said, his tone amused as he steadied her. "Let's get you home, okay?"

"But the party isn't over!" she whined, trying to free herself from our grip. "I haven't danced yet!"

"You've danced plenty," I said, trying to steer her toward the door.

She dug her heels in—literally—and threw her free arm out dramatically, nearly hitting someone with her cup. "I want one more song!" she declared, as if she were bargaining for a royal decree.

"Amber?" she said suddenly, turning to me with wide, pleading eyes. "Will you dance with me?"

"No," I said flatly, exchanging a helpless look with Blake.

"Yes!" she insisted, dropping her cup onto the couch (which promptly spilled, earning a groan from the people sitting there). "One dance! Just one! Please?"

"Not happening, Izzy," Blake said, his patience impressive as he gently tugged her toward the door. "We're going."

"You're no fun," she said, poking his chest in an exaggerated way. "You're like... like... a puppy that doesn't play fetch."

I stifled a laugh as Blake sighed, his lips twitching as he tried to keep a straight face. "And you're like a cat on catnip. Let's go."

It took us three tries to get Isabella to the door.

The first time, she spotted someone she vaguely recognized from a class and decided to launch into a story about how she once saved a bee from drowning in her lemonade.

The second time, she tripped over the corner of the rug and insisted the party needed better "floor safety standards."

Finally, on the third attempt, we managed to guide her toward the front hallway, where the music was slightly quieter, though the air was still thick with the smell of spilled punch and sweaty bodies. I thought we were in the clear, but Isabella suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing down the narrow hallway. "I forgot my cup!"

"You don't need your cup," I said gently, tightening my grip on her arm to keep her moving. "It'll be fine without you."

"But it's my favorite cup!" she whined, pouting like a toddler. "It's red and shiny, and it makes the punch taste better."

"We'll find you another one," Blake chimed in, his tone calm and steady as he held her other arm. "Let's just get you out of here before you trip over another rug."

She sighed dramatically but didn't argue, letting us guide her further down the hallway. Just as I reached for the handle, the door to the kitchen swung open, and I immediately recognized the figure stepping out.

Bryan.

Kill me.

He stepped into the hallway with a bottle of water in hand, his black T-shirt clinging to his broad frame. His tattoos peeked out from beneath the sleeves, and his dark eyes scanned the scene, landing squarely on me. My stomach twisted, and I tried to look anywhere but at him.

"Bryan!" Isabella exclaimed, throwing her arms up like she was greeting a celebrity. "You're here! The kissing guy!"

I froze, my heart sinking. "Izzy, please—"

But she was already giggling, her words spilling out in a jumble. "You kissed Amber! And it was so funny because you guys hate each other, but then you were kissing, and everyone was like, 'Whoa!' and Amber's face got all red like a tomato."

Bryan's lips curved into a faint smirk as his gaze shifted to me. "Tomato, huh?" he said, his tone casual but teasing. "That's a new one."

"She's exaggerating," I muttered, pulling Isabella toward the door. "Let's go."

But Isabella wasn't done. She turned to Bryan with wide, innocent eyes. "It was so good! You should've seen it. Amber was all, 'Nooo, I'm not doing it,' and then you said something cool and Spanish-y, and then she did it! It was like a movie."

Bryan raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing. "Spanish-y?"

I felt my cheeks flush as Bryan chuckled softly. "Sounds like I have a way with words."

"More like a way with being annoying," I snapped, pulling Isabella's arm. "Let's keep moving."

Blake finally stepped in, his voice calm but firm. "Izzy, let's get you home. You can tell all your stories tomorrow."

"But I'm not done!" Isabella whined, though she let herself be guided toward the door. "It was such a good kiss! Amber, was it good for you?"

I didn't answer, my jaw clenching as I tried to focus on the door and not the fact that Bryan was still watching us, his smirk far too smug.

"Bye, kissing guy!" Isabella called over her shoulder as Blake and I hauled her outside. "Don't kiss Amber too much, okay?"

Bryan's quiet chuckle followed us, but thankfully, he didn't say anything else. His presence, however, lingered, making the cool air outside feel far less refreshing than it should have.

Once we were halfway down the street, I let out a long breath, the tension slowly draining from my shoulders. Isabella hummed to herself, oblivious to the chaos she'd just caused.

"Izzy, you're something else," Blake said with a laugh, steadying her as she stumbled over the curb.

"She's just having fun," I said, though my voice was softer now. I couldn't stay mad at her, not when she was so unapologetically herself, even if she had just humiliated me in front of Bryan.

"Amber's bluuushy," Isabella sang, swaying between us. "Amber's got a boyfrieeend!"

"No, I don't," I muttered, shaking my head. "And you're going to regret all of this tomorrow."

"Probably," she said with a giggle. "But not tonight!"

Blake chuckled, his steadying hand keeping her upright. "Let's just focus on getting her home in one piece."

"Good plan," I said, letting my shoulders relax a little. At least we were out of the house—and away from Bryan.

———

By the time we reached the dorm, Isabella had cycled through several moods: delighted, melodramatic, sleepy, and now overly chatty. She leaned heavily on both Blake and me as we guided her down the hall, humming an off-key tune that vaguely resembled a pop song.

"This is my favorite dorm," she declared, her voice echoing off the walls as we reached our door. "It's so cozy. And you guys are the best! Like, seriously. I should buy you awards."

"Sure," I muttered, digging into my bag for the key. "I'll take a trophy with my name engraved on it."

Blake chuckled, helping me keep Izzy upright. "You've earned it."

I finally managed to unlock the door and push it open, steering Isabella inside before she could wander off into someone else's room by mistake. She immediately flopped onto my bed instead of her own, sprawling across the neatly tucked sheets.

"This is so comfy," she said with a sigh, her arms spread wide. "Amber, why didn't you tell me your bed is magic?"

"Because it's not," I said, pulling her up by the arm. "Get on your bed, Izzy. Mine is not up for grabs."

"Rude," she mumbled, but she allowed herself to be transferred to her own bed, where she promptly curled up like a cat. "Fine, but only because I love my bed more. It smells like vanilla."

Blake leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and a bemused smile on his face. "You sure you've got this?"

"I think I can handle her," I said, glancing at the clock. "It's past midnight, and she's already half-asleep."

"Good luck," he said with a soft laugh. "Text me if you need backup."

"Thanks for helping," I said, genuinely grateful as he left. Once the door clicked shut, I turned back to Isabella, who was now poking at one of her pillows like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Okay, Izzy," I said, crouching next to her bed. "You need to change out of this party outfit and into something more comfortable."

She blinked at me, her blue eyes glassy but full of mischief. "What if I just sleep in this? It's cute."

"It's also covered in other people's spilled drinks," I pointed out, holding up a pair of her fuzzy pajama pants. "Come on, get up."

She groaned dramatically, but after some light coaxing (and me physically pulling her into a sitting position), she agreed to change. The process was far more complicated than it needed to be, with her attempting to put both legs into the same pant leg and giggling uncontrollably when she got stuck.

"You're the worst drunk," I muttered, helping her straighten out her clothes.

"I'm the best drunk," she corrected, poking my cheek. "You're just boring."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling a little as I tucked her into bed. She looked up at me, her expression softening. "Thanks, Amber. You're the best roommate ever."

"Go to sleep, Izzy," I said, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. "You'll feel better in the morning."

As I stood to head to my own bed, I adjusted my skirt, which had ridden up slightly in all the chaos of helping Izzy. But before I could smooth it completely, I felt her gaze on me.

"Hey, wait," she said, sitting up a little straighter, her eyes fixed on my hip.

"What now?" I asked, already dreading the answer.

Her expression shifted from playful to serious as she pointed at the faint, silvery scar that ran along my hip bone at the front. My skirt had slipped down slightly, revealing more of it than I ever let anyone see. I quickly tugged the fabric back into place, but Izzy's curiosity was already piqued.

"Amber," she said, her voice softer now. "What happened there?"

I turned away, grabbing a water bottle from the desk and twisting the cap off. "It's nothing," I said lightly, though my hands trembled slightly. "Just an old scar."

"But I've seen it before," she pressed, her voice tinged with concern. It looks... I don't know, like it hurts."

"It's fine," I said, forcing a smile as I leaned against the desk. "I barely notice it anymore."

"Amber," she said gently, "did someone do that to you?"

My chest tightened as her words hit too close to a truth I wasn't ready to share. Memories I worked hard to bury surfaced unbidden. My breath hitched, but I quickly pushed the feelings back down.

"It's not like that," I said quickly, my voice a little too bright. "It was just a bad accident."

Izzy hesitated, her brow furrowing as she studied my face. "You sure? Because—"

"I'm fine," I said, cutting her off gently but firmly. "It's late, and you've had a long night. Let's not get into it now."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but after a moment, she sighed and sank back into her pillows. "Okay," she murmured, her voice soft. "But if you ever want to talk..."

"I know," I said, mustering another small smile. "Thanks, Izzy. Now go to sleep."

As her breathing evened out, I stayed where I was, my hand resting over the scar as if I could somehow erase it. It wasn't just a mark on my skin—it was a reminder of something I tried not to think about. Something that still felt too raw, too personal, to share with anyone. Not even Isabella.

Some scars never really faded.