I dressed in defiance more than vanity, each layer an argument against the chaos in my head. The black dress fit like something secretive, clinging to the curve of my waist as though it wanted to remember me. The fabric caught the light when I moved, shifting from ink to shadow in quiet rebellion. The cropped leather jacket was soft against my skin, a second skin made of promise and armor. My boots climbed to my knees, silver catching along the laces when I walked. My hair fell in loose waves I hadn’t planned but let happen, and my mouth carried the faintest stain of wine, a reminder that sometimes silence could be painted.
It wasn’t about beauty, not really. It was about control. About turning stillness into a weapon and stepping into noise on my own terms. I wanted to choose the pulse this time instead of letting it consume me.
I left without messaging Gwen or Aster. Their concern would have sounded too gentle, and I didn’t want gentle. I wanted theburn. The air outside bit at my legs as I walked downtown, each breath carving something open inside me. The club was hidden behind a row of louder places, marked only by a red awning and a dull gold light that hummed faintly in the cold.
Inside, the bass was immediate, a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anyone but still demanded your rhythm. The air tasted of heat and smoke, a mixture of perfume and exhaustion. Bodies moved against one another without grace, exchanging touch for meaning, eyes for distraction. The lights shifted through violet and red, too soft to blind, too alive to ignore.
I threaded through the crowd until I found a dark corner near the bar, a space that felt untouched by the light. I ordered something clear, cold, and cruel, vodka with no sweetness, no pretense of comfort, and waited for the burn to remind me where I began. The glass sat heavy in my hand, condensation slipping down my wrist. I let the music move through me, my pulse syncing to its steady pull until my thoughts blurred at the edges.
I wasn’t there to dance, or to be seen. I was there to disappear, to dissolve into something rhythmic, something anonymous. For a while, I almost managed it. My mind quieted, my body softened into the noise, my breathing aligned with the slow, demanding tempo.
Then came the shift. A prickle along my spine. That unmistakable awareness that eyes had found me through the haze. I didn’t turn right away, because some foolish, traitorous part of me hoped it might be him, standing in the dark with that quiet focus, watching without moving, pulling the air tighter between us. But when I finally glanced sideways, reality landed with a dull, familiar thud. It wasn’t him.
The man who stepped forward had a face sculpted for approval, all sharp lines and easy confidence. His shirt hung open just enough to advertise his intent. He carried his drinkloosely in one hand, the other already breaching the space that wasn’t his to cross.
“You here alone?” he asked, his breath warm, his cologne the cheap kind that thought too highly of itself.
I didn’t bother answering. He grinned, mistaking silence for invitation.
“Don’t be shy,” he said, leaning closer until the bass swallowed his words. “A woman such as you doesn’t stand here radiating temptation unless she wants to be seen.”
I turned slightly, just enough to make him meet my eyes. “And yet,” I said, voice unshaken, “you mistook indifference for desire.”
He laughed, low and amused, unfazed. “You say no with your mouth, sweetheart, but your eyes tell a different story.”
The words brushed too close. His hand followed. It grazed my arm first—testing—and when I didn’t move, he grew bolder, fingers sliding toward my waist as though the act had already been earned.
The atmosphere changed all at once, not the lights, not the rhythm, but the air itself. It thickened, colder, heavier, the kind of shift that made every hair on my arms lift and the noise around me fade into static. The music kept playing, the crowd kept moving, but something underneath it all had gone still, the stillness of a predator just before the strike.
A hand closed around the man’s wrist. Not a warning. A command. The sound of it was dull and final, flesh against bone with no room for argument.
“Take your fucking hand off her,” came the voice, deep and cold, but with the kind of threat that didn’t need to raise itself to be heard. “And then get the hell out of my sight before I break it.”
The words didn’t echo, they cut clean through the noise. I turned slowly, already knowing before my eyes confirmed it.
Professor Stone stood there, close enough that I could see the tension ripple through his jaw, the cords of restraint coiled under his skin. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the corded muscles, the light from the bar catching along the hard edge of his cheek. His eyes weren’t calm, they were dangerous, fixed on the man in front of him with the singular focus of someone deciding just how much damage would be enough.
The man laughed under his breath, the sound brittle and forced. “Jesus, man, relax. We were just talking.”
Hayden didn’t relax. His hand stayed locked around the man’s wrist, immovable. “You weren’t talking,” he said, the words gritted through his teeth. “You were touching what doesn’t fucking belong to you. So walk away while you still can.”
The man’s mouth opened, then closed again when Hayden’s grip tightened once more. A faint, broken sound escaped him before he yanked free and stumbled back into the crowd, disappearing in the sea of movement and neon without another word.
The moment he was gone, silence returned, or what passed for it in a place built on noise. The bass still thudded, the bodies still moved, but around us the world seemed to pull back. Hayden didn’t look at me right away. His eyes were still on the place where the man’s hand had been, the air between us pulsing with everything neither of us had said.
I didn’t move. Neither did he. The lights rolled across the floor, painting us both in alternating shadows, our breathing the only thing that seemed real.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried that same restrained fury, softened by something I couldn’t name. “What are you doing here, Edwina?”
It wasn’t the name that shocked me. It was the way he said it. Not Miss Carter, cold and formal, but Edwina, shaped low in histhroat like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. My stomach tightened in response, heat chasing through me in a way I couldn’t disguise.
I let out a breath, the words sharp enough to cut through the space between us. “Oh, that’s rich.” I turned to face him fully, chin lifted, gaze meeting his without apology. “What am I doing here? You really want to play that game, Professor?”
His jaw clenched, the muscle shifting beneath the skin, but he didn’t look away. The air between us was a standoff, and I hated that I could feel his heartbeat in mine, even through the distance.
“What about you?” I asked, my tone smoother now, colder, the edge of mockery curling at the corner of my mouth. “What are you doing here on your birthday? Shouldn’t you be somewhere quieter, pouring yourself expensive whiskey and pretending not to hate the music?”
The words came out before I could stop them, and the moment they left my mouth, I wanted them back. They weren’t careful. They weren’t controlled. They weren’t me.
