Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 50

"Fuck yeah!" Fowler agrees.

I nod, taking another sip of my drink, allowing the warmth to seep into my bones. My eyes drift back to Marx, who's now engaged in a conversation with someone I don't recognize. His laughter reaches me across the room, and I can't help the way my heart stutters in response.

Valarie grabs my hand. "Come on, let's dance!" she urges, her eyes sparkling with excitement. I let her pull me into the center of the room, where a small crowd is already swaying to the beat. The rhythm of the music takes over, and I find myself lost in the movement, the beat, and the energy of the room.

Dancing with Val, I feel a sense of freedom and release. Each move shakes off a bit of the heaviness I've carried for so long. I glance over at Fowler and Locke, who are engaged in some sort of dance-off, drawing laughter and cheers from the onlookers. Cruz, on the other hand, leans against the wall, watching them.

As the song ends, I'm breathless and laughing, the sound coming easily now. Valarie, equally winded, wraps an arm around my shoulder.

Fowler approaches us, a big grin on his face. "You ladies are on fire tonight!" he exclaims.

The evening wears on, and the house fills with the hum of conversations and laughter. I float from group to group, exchanging pleasantries and stories, the center of attention yet oddly detached.

As I talk, part of me remains anchored to Marx, watching as he moves through the room with an ease I envy. Eventually, our paths cross, and he offers me a smile.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and warm. "Glad you could make it to your own party."

I chuckle, the sound more relaxed than I feel. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, especially with all the effort Fowler put in." I gesture around the room, encompassing the balloons and lights.

For a moment, we stand there, caught in the eye of the storm, the party swirling around us.

Before either of us can say anything, someone yells for Marx from the other side of the room. He gives me a nod and heads off in the direction of the man who yelled for him.

The night continues, a blur of faces and voices, until the room begins to thin out, the early hours of the morning claiming the more sensible guests. Eventually, only a few of us remain, the die-hards and the roommates, sprawled across couches and chairs in a state of comfortable exhaustion.

I sink into a chair, my feet aching, my heart full.

As the last guest leaves, Fowler begins to round up empty glasses, his movements slow and languid. Valarie is already half asleep, her head resting on a cushion. Marx offers to help Fowler, but he's waved off with a tired but fond smile.

"Leave it," Fowler insists. "We'll tackle it in the morning."

**

I step out of the shower, feeling a lingering heaviness that clings to my limbs. The sickness might have left, but its echoes still haunt my body. The party's noise and laughter seem a distant memory now, everyone gone, the house silent except for the soft creaks of settling and the low hum of the night.

Water droplets trail down my skin, each one a reminder of the night's events. I think of the accidental spill, the sticky sweetness of someone's drink on my skin. My muscles, tense and tired from dancing and smiling more than I have in months, finally relax under the caress of the warm water.

I wrap a towel around me, rubbing my hair just enough to stop the dripping. The thought of blowdrying feels like a mountain too steep to climb tonight. Instead, I opt for comfort, pulling on an oversized t-shirt that hangs loose and soft against my skin, paired with a pair of comfy panties.