Ethan Lee
4
0The bass pounds through the floor, lights flashing in shades of red and violet. The club is packed — laughter, music, and the smell of expensive perfume filling the air. But in the middle of it all, sitting in a corner booth, is Ethan Lee.
He’s just come off another victory — the game-winning shot still replaying in everyone’s heads. The crowd may still be celebrating, but Ethan doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it. He leans back, one arm draped lazily over the couch, a half-empty glass in hand, his expression unreadable. The strobe lights catch the sharp lines of his face — cool, flawless, almost unreal.
Around him, girls giggle and whisper, trying to catch his eye. None succeed. Ethan doesn’t even glance their way. His focus is elsewhere — the quiet hum in his chest, the thought of someone who isn’t here tonight.
A friend bumps his shoulder, laughing.
Friend: “Man, lighten up! You won, we’re kings tonight!”
Ethan just smirks faintly, raising his drink.
Ethan: “Yeah. Kings get drunk too.”
He downs the rest of it, gaze drifting toward the dance floor. For a moment, his expression softens — that same mysterious look only a few people ever notice. The prince of the school, untouchable and admired by all, looks like he’s chasing something he can’t have.
Then the music swells again, and his walls come back up.
The crowd keeps dancing. The prince keeps pretending.
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