The Party Crash

Cody POV

I tug at the collar of my borrowed jacket, feeling like a fish out of water. The Hollywood party sparkles around me—lights flashing, music thumping, people laughing too loud. I don’t belong here. I’m just a dancer with big dreams and empty pockets, crashing a fancy event to maybe, just maybe, make a connection that’ll get me somewhere. My sneakers squeak on the polished floor as I weave through the crowd, dodging trays of tiny food and girls in glittery dresses. Everyone’s somebody here—actors, singers, rich types—and I’m nobody. Yet.

I swipe a glass of something fizzy from a passing waiter. It’s not stealing if it’s free, right? My heart’s pounding, but I keep my chin up, faking confidence. I’ve got no invite, no fancy name to drop. Just a tip from a buddy who knows a guy who knows a guy. “Get in, shake hands, get out,” he said. Easy enough, except my palms are sweaty, and I don’t know who to talk to. The room’s a blur of fake smiles and loud voices. I sip the drink—too sweet—and scan for a friendly face.

That’s when I see the balcony doors. Fresh air sounds good, and maybe I can think straight out there. I slip past a group of suits arguing about some movie deal and push through the glass doors. The night hits me—cool, quiet, stars blinking above the L.A. skyline. It’s a relief after the chaos inside. I lean on the railing, breathing deep, letting the fizz in my glass bubble against my lips. For a second, I feel like I can do this. Like I can belong.

Then I hear a stumble behind me. I turn fast, and there’s this guy—tall, dark hair messy in a cool way, eyes catching the light. He’s swaying a little, a half-empty glass in his hand, and he’s grinning like he knows a secret. I know that face. Ryan freaking Maddox, the actor everyone’s obsessed with. His last movie made millions, and his smile’s plastered on every billboard in town. My stomach flips. He’s a big deal, and I’m… me.

“Whoops,” he says, catching himself on the railing. His voice is low, smooth, even with the slur. “Didn’t mean to crash your spot.”

I laugh, nervous. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m the one crashing here.”

He squints at me, head tilting. “You don’t look like the usual crowd. No suit, no shiny watch. What’s your deal?”

“Dancer,” I say, shrugging. “Trying to make it. You know, big dreams, no cash.”

“Honest,” he says, stepping closer. He smells like whiskey and something sharp, like cologne. “I like that. I’m Ryan, by the way.”

“I know,” I blurt, then wince. “I mean, yeah, hi. I’m Cody.”

He chuckles, and it’s warm, not mean. “Cody the dancer. Cool.” He sips his drink, eyeing me over the rim. “You dance good?”

“Good enough,” I say, smirking a little. “Wanna see?”

His grin widens. “Yeah, I do.”

I don’t know what’s possessing me—maybe the fizz, maybe the buzz of being near him—but I set my glass down and step back. The balcony’s small, but I’ve got room. I roll my shoulders, find the beat of the muffled music inside, and move. Nothing fancy, just a quick sway, a spin, letting my body talk. Ryan watches, eyes locked on me, and I feel hot all over. When I stop, he claps slow, like he’s impressed.

“Damn,” he says. “You’ve got moves.”

“Thanks,” I say, breathless, not just from dancing. He’s closer now, and my heart’s doing flips.

“Ever dance with someone?” he asks, voice dropping.

“Sometimes,” I say, swallowing hard. “You offering?”

He doesn’t answer with words. He sets his glass down, steps in, and grabs my hand. It’s bold, and I’m too stunned to pull back. The music’s faint, but we find a rhythm—slow, messy, fun. His hand’s warm in mine, the other on my waist, and I’m laughing ‘cause he’s tipsy and stepping on my toes.

“You’re terrible at this,” I tease.

“Shut up,” he shoots back, grinning. “I’m a star, I don’t need to dance good.”

“Oh, right, Mr. Big Shot,” I say, and he laughs, loud and real.

We’re spinning now, clumsy but close, and I’m dizzy—not from the moves, but from him. His eyes are on me, dark and shiny, and I can’t look away. The balcony feels like ours, like the party’s a million miles off. He pulls me tighter, and I feel his breath on my cheek. My pulse is racing, and I don’t know if it’s the night or him or both.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters, smirking.

“Me?” I say, faking shock. “You’re the one dragging me around.”

“Dragging?” he says, raising a brow. “You’re keeping up just fine.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too big to hide it. We stop moving, just standing there, inches apart. The air’s thick, and I can hear my own heartbeat. He’s looking at me like I’m something new, something he wants. I don’t know what to do with that, but I like it. A lot.

Then he leans in. Slow, giving me time to back off, but I don’t. His lips hit mine, soft at first, then firmer, and it’s like fireworks in my chest. I kiss him back, hands grabbing his jacket, pulling him closer. It’s quick, messy, perfect—stars above us, city below, and his taste on my tongue. Whiskey and heat. I’m lost in it, head spinning, until he pulls back, breathing hard.

“Wow,” he says, voice rough. “That was…”

“Yeah,” I finish, ‘cause I don’t have words either. My face is burning, but I’m grinning like an idiot.

He runs a hand through his hair, still close. “You’re not like the fakes in there,” he says. “I like that.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, and he laughs again, softer this time.

We’re quiet for a sec, just looking at each other. The party’s noise creeps back in, reminding me where we are. I don’t want this to end, but I know it’s risky. Paps could be anywhere, and he’s Ryan Maddox. I’m just Cody.

“I should go,” I say, stepping back, even though it sucks to say it.

“Wait,” he says, fishing a pen from his pocket. He grabs my hand, scribbles something on my palm. His number. My skin tingles where he touches. “Text me if you want more,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine.

“More of what?” I ask, teasing, but my voice shakes a little.

He smirks, all charm. “Whatever you want, dancer.”

I nod, too flustered to talk. He lets go, and I turn, heading back inside. The crowd swallows me up, but I feel his stare on my back. My hand’s clenched around the number, ink smudged but readable. I’m buzzing—excited, scared, alive. I sneak out the front, past the flashing cameras and loud chatter, and hit the street. The cool air doesn’t calm me down. I’m already hooked, and I know it.