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I spot Rhys first, at the bar handing his card to the girl bartending with a dimpled, polite smile. He sees me as he turns, eyes lighting up in a way that makes my chest warm. It’s not that I didn’t expect that reaction. But it feels good to know he’s happy I’m here.

“Need some help?” I ask, sidling up beside him. He nods in thanks, and I grab two of the amber beer bottles to take over to the table, helping him pass out everyone’s drink orders. But my eyes are only on the girl across the table, her plump cheek smooshed in her propped-up hand, pulling her mouth up on the side.

She’s watching the stage with a bored gaze, chewing on her perpetually swollen bottom lip, so I take the slight advantage and ease up to her side, setting one of the bottles next to her other hand.

Paloma looks up, the words “thank you” half out of her mouth before her eyes take me in.

“Bennett,” she breathes, eyes wide.

“Hey, P.” I smile, a blush tingeing my cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, but her eyes dart to Sadie briefly.

I sit on the stool next to her, still taking up too much space with my body, but not looming over her. “Singing karaoke, clearly.”

She smiles, a slight chuckle leaving her lips before she takes a sip of her beer. “Clearly.”

The word is low and smoky, the intoxication of Paloma Blake’s unintentional sex appeal wrapping around me like a vice. I lean in closer.

“I heard Freddy was forcing Rhys to sing,” I whisper. “I couldn’t miss that.”

As if on cue, their names are called. Freddy loops his arm around a bright red Rhys and they stalk off to the lifted stage in the corner. The bar isn’t packed yet, but it’s decently crowded. My best friend looks like he’s going to sink into the floor, whereas Freddy’s already unbuttoned his collared shirt nearly to his belly button and blows a kiss at his girlfriend.

“We should go up there,” Ro says, eyes bright with affection and excitement. She’s come entirely out of her shell since I first met her, much more confident with Freddy by her side. “To support them.”

The girls head over, but I opt to stay at the table, not wanting to block anyone’s view with my size. But the second they make it through the gathering crowd to the front of the stage, close enough that they could reach out and touch the guys, someone approaches Paloma.

I’m not surprised. She’s beautiful, perfect—everyone knows it. Part of me wants to intervene. I’ve had to watch this for years. Should it be different now that we are friends?

We’re just friends now. Leave her alone.

But brown eyes flicker over and find mine, a clear pleading look in them, and I’m heading to her immediately, cutting through the crowd with ease. The second I’m at her back, the frat boy wannabe takes me in and blanches, ducking his head and walking away.

I stand behind her like a sentry, covering her body with my bulk easily, trying to hide the smile that wants to pull at my face.

“This one’s for our girlfriends!” Freddy shouts into the mic, making the feedback go off and several patrons flinch—including Paloma, who scoots herself back into me before straightening again, staying close.

Sister Hazel’s “All for You” starts up and Freddy and Rhys sing vibrantly into the mics. Rhys is tipsy enough to give something of a performance, but Freddy as usual steals the show. They both make a mess of the verses but manage to keep it together for each chorus.

Freddy is the loud one, but Rhys has the actually decent voice.

Freddy ends their performance on his knees, reaching for Rosalie’s head to kiss her soundly in front of everyone, while Sadie shakes her head with a shimmering, rare smile as she watches Rhys blushing and singing.

It isn’t until he climbs down off the stage that the figure skater runs to him, jumping into his waiting arms for a movie-worthy kiss as he holds her up, her legs around his waist.

“Feeling like the third wheel?” Paloma asks, leaning back so that her hair sweeps over the skin of my forearms where I’ve rolled up my flannel sleeves.

I look down at her, seeing the slight flush to her skin from the heat of the crowd and alcohol. The relaxed features of her face, the clear safety she finds in me.

“No,” I say quietly. “I’m not.”

The music interlude before the next karaoke performance is “With or Without You” by U2—I recognize it, almost certain I heard it in this exact bar three years ago, a more painful memory.

This time, I don’t let it hurt.

Paloma turns, looking up at me with soft brown eyes. One hand still holds the neck of her beer tightly. My body is blocking her from the others nearly entirely as my heart thunders to the same beat:

Hers. Hers. Hers.