“I’m fine,” I shoot back, a little too quickly.
“Sure you are.” His smirk makes me want to smack him. “First night out, brand new boots, standing in the middle of a club where you can’t even see the exits—yeah, you’re totally fine.”
I push past him toward the bar. “Do you always narrate people’s breakdowns, or is this special treatment?”
“Special,” he says, following right behind me. “Birthday girl gets VIP commentary.” I notice his hand in the air, and then on cue, the bartender drops a drink in front of me, neon pink and fizzing. Before I can grab it, Elijah slides it closer as if he made it himself.
“Try it.”
“Why? Are you planning on roofying me?”
His grin widens. “If I were, you’d already be face-down on the bar.”
I snort and take a sip. It’s awful. Burning sugar awful. I slam it back down. “Jesus. It tastes like cough syrup.”
“Finish it,” he says, leaning against the bar, close enough I can feel the heat off his arm.
“Bossy much?”
“Always.”
I tilt my head, pretending to think it over. “You know, you’re lucky you’re pretty. Otherwise, I’d have punched you by now.”
“Pretty?” He laughs, low. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Would you rather I say asshole?”
“Depends.” His eyes don’t move from mine. “Which one gets me closer to your good side?”
The crowd surges, shoving me against him. His hand lands on my waist to steady me, but he doesn’t let go right away. His thumb brushes once, just enough to make me catch my breath before I shove him off.
“You don’t quit, do you?” I mutter, turning back to the bar. Trying to keep up the act. Trying to pretend I’m not dying to have his skin on mine.
“Nope,” he says, grinning.
The bass shifts—deeper, heavier—pulling the floor under our feet. Gen’s already dragged some guy onto the dance floor, laughing too loud, her hands everywhere.
Elijah nods toward her, then looks at me. “Guess it’s just us now.”
“Don’t even—” I start, but he’s already lacing his fingers through mine, tugging me into the chaos of bodies.
The crowd swallows us whole, lights strobing so hard my vision blurs every other second. But this place feels better, maybe it’s the way the lights are flashing in monochrome colour or the way his hands slide to my hips. But even though my stomach flips, I feel sturdy in my movements, not feeling the need to resist him.
“You’re stiff,” he says, pressing against my ear.
“Maybe because I don’t grind on people often,” I bite back, trying to sound sharp, not breathless.
I look around, taking cues from the people nearby, then let my hips sway side to side, guided by his touch.
He laughs, deep and careless, chest vibrating against my back. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He spins me so we are chest to chest, nothing but heat and bass between us. His hands stay locked on my waist, and my nerves light up.
“You’re too cocky for your own good,” I mutter.
He dips his head, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Confident. There’s a difference.”
I should snap back. Instead, my fingers find the front of his shirt, clutching fabric to steady me. The music makes it easier to blame the rhythm, the alcohol, anything but the way my body presses closer to his.
