The car pulls away from the curb, the fairy lights in my windows shrinking in the rearview like I’m abandoning good decisions on purpose. The radio’s low, some host trying, and failing, to make the Valentine’s murders sound quirky. Like this is a themed segment instead of people getting carved up.
Everyone is so concerned that Cupid’s on the hunt.
Not me. If he exists, I hope he notices. I hope the heart-eyes track me through the crowd and land hard. Because honestly? What better way to get over a breakup than becoming someone else’s favorite problem.
I hope he sees me and thinks, shit… that one.
Mine.
Because if Cupid wants a target, he’d better pick someone who knows how to smile back.
I smile to myself, looking out at the city lights bleeding by.
“Tonight is going to be so fucking fun,” I say. “I want to forget his name before midnight.”
Luna whoops, Harper claps, and the driver mutters something about “kids these days” while turning the station and cranking the radio.
We speed toward the part of town where the warehouses live, where the bass never really stops, the streets get dirty, and the nights feel sharp around the edges.
Cupid's Killhouse waits somewhere ahead, pulsing red in the dark, and I’m already half in love with the idea of losing myself inside it.
2
AERI
The warehouse sits right off the beach, big, ugly, and very obviously not zoned for whatever the hell is happening tonight. Rusted metal. Graffiti everywhere. Bay doors thrown wide like it’s daring someone to shut it down. Red neon bleeds out over the sand, flashing CUPID’S KILLHOUSE above the entrance.
The K flickers like it’s one bad decision away from burning out, which honestly just makes me trust it more.
The Uber barely stops before Luna’s already shoving the door open, heat rushing in like a slap. Glitter dusts the backseat when she moves, like she shed on impact. Harper laughs and hooks her arm through mine as we step out, platform boots sinking slightly into warm sand that still holds the day’s heat.
The air’s thick. Salty. Sticky. It smells like sweat, sunscreen, weed, and poor impulse control. The ocean’s right there—dark, loud, dramatic—but no one’s paying it any attention. Every single person is moving in the same direction, pulled by bass thudding through concrete and red light pulsing like a heartbeat.
This place doesn’t feel safe.
Which is kind of the point.
“Okay,” Luna says, craning her neck to stare up at the sign, “if I die tonight, please delete my phone and tell my mom I was brave and hot.”
“You’re not dying,” I snort, tugging my jacket tighter even though it’s useless in this heat. “Worst case scenario, you fall in love with a DJ who owns exactly one extension cord and lives out of his trunk.”
Harper grins. “Best case?”
“We dance until our legs give out, make bad choices with cute strangers, and pretend tomorrow’s a rumor,” I say. “So. Self-care.”
Luna hums. “Love a wellness journey.”
The bass hits harder as we get closer, vibrating up through the sand, into my bones. Sweat already slicks my spine. My pulse is up, not from nerves—never nerves—from anticipation.
Tonight isn’t about being careful.
It’s about noise, heat, bad ideas, and seeing what happens when I stop pretending I give a shit.
And yeah—forgetting him.
Or better yet?
Replacing him with something way more dangerous.
