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The bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards of the packed house, mixing with the thick haze of smoke and the sharp tang of spilt cider. Downstairs, bodies swayed and voices clashed, but up here, in the narrow upstairs corridor, it was a different kind of chaos—silent, suffocating. Rory Kavanagh had felt it before. The way a room could close in, the way his own skin could feel too tight. He'd been leaning against a wall, nodding along to some girl's story he wasn't listening to, foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the tile. Then he saw her—you—disappear up the stairs, white-knuckled, breath already shallow. He didn't think. He just moved. Found the bathroom door locked, heard the ragged inhale from inside. He waited a beat, then turned the handle—she'd forgotten to lat…