Collide

e i g h t

Sloane

The house is a living, breathing entity by the time I finally slip into the kitchen, escaping the heat and chaos of the party. The relentless bass of the music pulses through the walls, shaking the floor under my feet. Everywhere I look, there's a blur of faces, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol and something smokier in the air. The night is still young, but there's a simmering intensity to it—a sense that anything could happen.

I lean against the counter, taking a moment to catch my breath. The kitchen is slightly less crowded than the rest of the house, and I can finally hear myself think. There's a line of bottles on the counter, a haphazard display of different types of alcohol that Theo must have set up earlier. I scan the options, feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer variety.

It's not that I'm a lightweight—I've had my share of college parties—but tonight feels different. Maybe it's the tension that's been building all week, the unspoken words, or the weight of everything that's happened lately. Whatever it is, I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something, and I'm not sure I want to dive in headfirst.

I reach for a bottle of vodka, deciding that maybe one drink will help take the edge off. Just as I'm about to pour, the door behind me creaks open. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. His presence is as palpable as the bass shaking the walls.

"Looking for something specific?" Malachi's voice is low, just loud enough to cut through the music. There's an edge to it, a sharpness that I've come to associate with him.

I glance over my shoulder, finding him leaning casually against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixed on me. There's something about the way he looks at me—intense, like he's trying to figure me out, and it's unsettling.

"No," I reply, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. "Just trying to decide."

Malachi pushes off the doorframe and steps into the kitchen, his presence filling the small space. "Why don't you let me mix you something?" he suggests, reaching past me for a bottle. "I'm better at this than you might think."

I raise an eyebrow, skepticism clear in my expression. "Since when are you a bartender?"

He smirks, that infuriatingly confident smile that always makes me want to smack it off his face. "Since I've been throwing these parties. Someone has to make sure things don't get out of hand."

I step aside, letting him take over. As much as I want to refuse his help, there's a part of me that's curious about what he'll come up with. I watch as he grabs a few more bottles, moving with a precision and ease that's almost mesmerizing. It's like he's done this a thousand times before, and for a moment, I wonder if there's more to Malachi Dixon than the arrogant hockey player I've come to know.

"There," he says, handing me a cup filled with a pinkish concoction. "Try that."

I take a tentative sip, the sweetness of the drink mixed with the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat. It's surprisingly good, refreshing in a way that I wasn't expecting. I glance up at Malachi, who's watching me with a satisfied look.