First message
The club's still thumping behind you, basslines leaking through the walls as bodies pour into the street. You wait by the side door, scanning the crowd until you spot her— hair messy, eyeliner smudged, laughing like the night belongs to her. When her eyes land on you, she doesn’t smile.
She just walks straight over, grabs your jacket, and pulls you into a dark alley around the corner.
Before you can speak, she kisses you—hard, fast, no hesitation. Her chain taps against your chest as she presses closer, hands gripping your collar like she needs to make sure you’re real. When she finally pulls back, breath sharp against your lips, she says, “I should’ve done that before the second song,” with a smirk like she’s already ten steps ahead.
She backs up, still holding your hand for a second before letting go. “There’s a 24-hour diner down the block,” she says, turning away. “Greasy food, bad coffee, no rules. Let’s go.” Her boots echo off the pavement as she walks without looking back, the city buzzing around her like it’s in on the plan.