They'd always been like this.
Sharp edges. Cold stares. Snide remarks traded like currency. Quinn couldn't even remember how it started—maybe back in first grade, when Emery refused to share the red crayon. Or in fourth, when Quinn called her a robot for never smiling. It didn't matter. They'd spent years circling each other like predators, always on the verge of blood.
It was easier that way.
Easier to fight than admit that Emery got under her skin in a way no one else could. Easier to pretend it was hate when it felt like something deeper—uglier. Closer.
Quinn grabbed a drink off a table and downed it, barely tasting the burn. She needed to cool down. She needed to forget the way Emery had looked at her, like she wasn't even worth raising her voice for. Like she'd already won, without lifting a finger.
Laughter carried on the breeze, sharper now. Closer.
Quinn leaned against the house, eyes half-lidded, drink in hand. The warmth in her chest had cooled into something sour. Around her, the party flowed like a tide she wasn't part of. People wandered by, glancing at her, whispering just loud enough to make sure she heard.
"Isn't that the girl who flipped out on Emery?"
"She's so dramatic."
"I mean… can you blame her? Her boyfriend basically ditched her for Emery."
That one stung the most. Not because it was true, but because it wasn't.
Quinn finished her drink in one swallow and reached for another—someone had abandoned a full cup on the ledge beside the hose. She didn't care who it belonged to. She just needed the burn. Something to drown the hum in her veins.
A guy she vaguely recognized stepped into her orbit, tall and grinning like he thought he was doing her a favor. Polo shirt. Backwards cap. The type who thought parties owed him something.
"You look like you could use something stronger," he said, holding up a bottle of something clear and mean.
She raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"I'm not trying to roofie you," he added, laughing too hard at his own joke. "Just shots. Come on, graduate. Live a little."
He poured one into a plastic cup and handed it to her, already prepping a second.
Around them, people watched. Not many—but enough. Enough to make Quinn's skin itch. Enough to make her pride say screw it. She lifted the shot to her lips—
—and then it was gone.
Emery's hand closed around her wrist like a vice, cool and firm. Her voice came next, low and close to Quinn's ear.
"She's done drinking."
The guy blinked. "Uh, you her mom or something?"
Emery didn't even look at him. She stared at Quinn instead, her expression unreadable—but her eyes weren't blank. They were tight. Focused. Sharp in a way that made Quinn's breath hitch.
"I said," Emery repeated, louder this time, "she's done."
There was no argument. The guy backed off, muttering something under his breath, and disappeared into the crowd.
Quinn stared at her, caught between the lingering buzz and the sudden, unwelcome clarity that came from Emery's hand still wrapped around her wrist.
"You think you can just—"
"Yes," Emery said flatly, letting go. "Because you don't know whento stop."
Quinn yanked her hand back like it burned.
"I don't need you to babysit me," she snapped.
Emery's expression didn't change. Calm. Cold. But something flickered in her eyes—quick, gone just as fast.
"No," she said. "You need someone to stop you before you do something stupid."
Quinn laughed, sharp and humorless. "And that someone's you?"
Emery shrugged one shoulder, like it didn't matter, like she hadn't just pulled Quinn back from the edge.
"You sure as hell weren't stopping yourself."
Quinn hated how steady her voice was. How unaffected she seemed, like she wasn't standing in the middle of Quinn's chaos—like she never flinched, even when Quinn was shaking.
The music thudded from inside. The night felt too loud, too close.
Quinn looked away. "You don't get it."
"Try me."
And there it was. The crack.
Quinn's mouth twisted. "I wasn't drinking because of you, you know."
"I never said you were."
"You think I'm this… sad little girl spiraling because my boyfriend talked to someone prettier—"
"Stop." Emery cut her off—quiet, but firm enough to slice clean through the haze.
Quinn blinked, mouth still half open. "Why? Afraid I'll say something true?"
Emery didn't flinch. But her eyes—God, her eyes—were pleading, not with Quinn, but with the part of her that still knew how to listen.
"Because you're drunk," Emery said softly. "And I don't want you saying something you'll regret just because it's loud in your head right now."
Quinn's breath caught. The words hit different—too gentle. Too careful.
"I'm not—" she started, but the defiance crumbled halfway through. She wasn't fooling anyone. Least of all Emery.
"You are," Emery said. "And you're hurt. And I'm not going to stand here and let you bleed in front of people who don't even care enough to look."
That shut her up.
Quinn looked around like she'd only just realized the party hadn't paused for them. Music still blasted. Laughter spilled from the porch. Someone was trying to start a beer pong game with a leaf blower. No one was watching anymore—not really. The moment had passed them by. But Emery still stood there, steady and immovable, like she always did when Quinn least expected it.
"I'm not trying to humiliate you," Emery added, voice low. "I just… I've seen this version of you before. And I don't like what it does to you."
Quinn swallowed hard.
Emery didn't wait for a thank-you. Just tipped her head toward the house and said, "Come on. You need water. And probably carbs."
Quinn should've told her to shove it. Should've walked away, flipped her off, something. But her legs didn't get the memo. They followed.
Inside, the party was louder, hotter. Bodies packed tight like nobody cared the world outside was spinning off its axis. Emery navigated the crowd with clinical precision, clearing a path to the kitchen. Quinn trailed behind, a step off, floating through her own haze.
Emery handed her a water bottle and opened the fridge. "Pizza," she muttered, like it offended her to offer comfort in the shape of greasy triangles. "Eat something."
Quinn stared at the plate Emery set down—two limp slices of pepperoni—and suddenly hated how much it felt like care.
She was about to say something sharp when a voice cut through the room. "Quinn?"
Jake. Her boyfriend's best friend. All teeth and tan and tank top swagger, holding a red solo cup and a beer pong ball like he was born for frat basements and bad decisions.
"You look like you could use a rebound," he said with a grin that made Quinn's pride sit up and purr.
Behind her, Emery went still.
Quinn's eyes flicked between the two of them. She should walk away. She should eat the damn pizza and let the fire cool.
But Quinn was drunk and hurting and spiteful, and Jake was offering a spotlight she could bleed under.
So she smiled.
"Sure," she said, sauntering closer. "Why not?"
Jake laughed like he'd just won a prize, wrapping an arm around her waist. "We're playing in the garage. Come cheer me on?"
Quinn glanced over her shoulder as he led her away. Emery hadn't moved. Just stood there, one hand braced against the counter, eyes fixed on Quinn like she was a car crash she couldn't stop watching.
Quinn held her gaze just long enough to say: watch me burn.
And Emery did.
From across the party. From the shadows of a room too loud, too full of people who only wanted a piece of Quinn when she was flammable.
The night blurred after that.
Jake handed her another drink. Or maybe it wasn't Jake. Maybe it was her boyfriend. Or some friend-of-a-friend she'd never seen before. It all bled together—faces, laughter, music, touches that lingered too long. Her skin buzzed. Her stomach turned. Her head pulsed with heat and static and a kind of ache she couldn't name.
Someone offered her a room. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere to lie down. She couldn't say no. Couldn't say anything.
The hallway tilted. A door opened. The hand on her back didn't feel steady. It didn't feel right.
And then—
A voice. A hand, firmer this time. Warm. Certain. The pressure shifted.
Then nothing.