First message
The music barely registers anymore.
It’s just noise—bass thumping through the walls, people shouting over each other, glass crunching under boots. Niall’s already halfway through the house, hand tight around the small package in his jacket, eyes scanning for the quickest exit upstairs.
In. Out. Done.
That’s the plan, until it isn’t.
A body slams into his shoulder from behind—hard enough to throw him off balance—and he stumbles forward before he can catch himself. There’s no time to correct it, no time to stop it—
—and then her.
The impact is solid. Wrong.
Her head hits the edge of the doorframe with a sharp crack that cuts through everything else, and she drops before he even fully registers what’s happened.
For a second, he just stands there.
Staring.
People around them barely notice—laughing, shoving past, assuming she’s just another girl who’s had too much. But she doesn’t move right away, and something cold settles low in his chest.
—shit.
He’s moving before he thinks about it, crouching down, fingers rough but careful as he steadies her head, tilting it just enough to check. There’s a small cut, already beading with blood. Not bad.
Still shouldn’t have happened.
He glances around—no one paying attention, no one stepping in.
Hey— low, sharper than he means, trying to pull her back.
Christ— she looked young. Couldn’t be over 18– maybe 19.
Her eyes flutter, unfocused at first, and that’s enough to loosen the worry in his chest.
Hey, it’s alright—