SPECTRAL.

† F O U R T E E N †

     THE MOMENT TROY GUIDED ME THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, the house swallowed me whole again—its walls trembling with bass, its lights strobing like restless stars caught in a fit. The air was hot, thick with perfume, sweat, and the unmistakable haze of alcohol on breath. My knee screamed with every step, though I tried my hardest to mask the limp, to make it seem like nothing at all. But Troy didn't let me falter. His arm was firm around me, his frame steady as a pillar, and though I wanted to shrink beneath the weight of so many eyes, he didn't even glance their way.

     Everyone else, however, did.

     The laughter, the dancing, the drunken chatter—it all wavered for a few beats as people registered the sight of me leaning into Troy, his arm wrapped around my waist as though I were fragile glass. Their surprise was sharp enough to cut, and I felt it all along my skin, prickling, burning. My cheeks flamed, and the anger from earlier that had sent me storming out the door found a new, bitter root inside me: shame. Not because of Troy's closeness, but because I could practically hear the unspoken thoughts flooding their minds.

     That girl. The weird one. The one who fought with Brooke.

     I heard it materialize in whispers, half-laughter spilling between sips of red plastic cups.

     Yet Troy kept moving, unbothered, his face as calm as ever. He didn't acknowledge their stares, didn't flinch under the scrutiny. Instead, he led me with this quiet confidence, this assurance that almost made me believe none of it mattered at all. I remember looking up at him in that moment, at the sharpness of his jawline, the curve of his lips, the focus in his eyes, and thinking: why isn't he embarrassed? Why doesn't he care?

     We moved toward Jasmine, who was chatting animatedly with a girl near the kitchen doorway, her bracelets clinking with every gesticulation. She noticed us before we even reached her, her conversation pausing mid-sentence. Her eyes darted from Troy to me and back again, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across her face.

     "Hey, Jasmine," Troy said, his voice raised just enough to be heard above the thumping music. "I need the room in the east wing. To myself. Tonight."

     The words disoriented me. The east wing? A room all to himself? The request was strange, bold even, and I wondered if Jasmine would laugh in his face. My chest tightened, unsure if I wanted her to agree or not.

     But she didn't laugh. Instead, Jasmine arched an eyebrow, narrowed her eyes as though weighing him carefully, then nodded once. "Fine. But don't mess it up, Troy. That's my uncle's favorite room. You know how much he treasures that space. If anything's ruined, it's on you."

     Troy's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "I'll take care of it. You have my word."

     And that was it. Just like that, she handed over a room, like Troy had some unspoken authority in this house that no one else could challenge.

     Jasmine's eyes slid toward me next, and for a fraction of a second, they lingered on my knee. I saw the recognition spark in her, saw her mouth press into the thinnest line, but she didn't ask, didn't pry. She let the silence hold its weight and turned back to her conversation, leaving Troy to guide me further inside.

     As we moved away, I caught it: a sharp whisper, a girl leaning into her friend's ear. "Isn't that Troy helping that weird girl?"

     The words slapped me harder than any physical blow could. Weird girl. My body tensed, my breath tightened, but before I could spiral deeper into the sting of it, I glanced up at Troy again. He hadn't even flinched. He didn't slow, didn't so much as twitch at the insult hanging in the air behind us. That steadiness of his…it was almost infuriating. And yet, I clung to it like oxygen.