“Comeon,Roxy!” Cynna yells over her shoulder, reaching back for my wrist. “You look like a hostage!”
I’m clinging to the wall like it might open up and let me melt into it, but she grabs my hand before I can escape. Her grip is warm and certain. I try not to flinch.
“I feel like a hostage,” I say, but the music swallows it.
She just grins and yanks me deeper into the swarm of bodies, dragging me through strobing lights and the smell of too much cologne. My boots stick against the floor with every step—syrupy layers of god-knows-what trying to claim me. People bump against me—elbows, hips, a too-close shoulder that nearly makes me spin out—but Cynna is relentless.
She’s a damn hurricane in glitter eyeliner, and I’m the debris she decided to carry.
She finds us a corner at the bar, wedged between two couples and a guy trying to flirt with the bartender by asking what “real absinthe” tastes like. Cynna orders without asking me—something pink and strong and probably sweet enough to qualify as dessert.
“You’re gonna drink this,” she says, thrusting the glass at me. “And then you’re going to unclench. You look like someone stapled anxiety to a crash dummy.”
“Iamanxiety in a crash dummy,” I mutter, but I take the drink anyway.
It burns.
Not the good kind, at first. Not the smooth slide of expensive liquor, but the sharp shock of sugar and fire and fruit thatdoesn’t grow on any planet I’ve ever visited. I cough once, eyes watering.
Cynna’s already halfway through hers.
“To bad decisions,” she declares, raising her glass.
“To surviving them,” I reply, clinking mine against hers with a grimace.
The second sip is easier. The third goes down like my spine’s loosening, one vertebra at a time.
The noise presses in around me, thick and relentless, but now it’s a little blurred at the edges. Like the volume got turned down just enough to make space in my head. The lights are still too bright, but they don’t sting as hard. The press of bodies still makes my skin itch, but the drink buzzes through me like armor—thin, fragile armor, but armor all the same.
Cynna’s watching me over the rim of her glass, one brow raised like she’s waiting to see if I combust.
“I can’t believe you’re actually out,” she says, voice pitched just below shouting.
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m not! I’m impressed. You look good, Roxy. You even put on real pants.”
“These are my second-fanciest pants, I’ll have you know.”
She laughs again—full-bodied and sharp, the kind that makes people glance over to see what the joke is. She’s magnetic. Always has been. The kind of woman who owns every room like she was born with a deed in her purse.
Me? I’m just trying to stay upright.
She leans in closer, conspiratorial. “You’re doing great, babe. Seriously. You’ve made it, what—eight minutes without fleeing? That’s a new record.”
I roll my eyes, but I smile. Just a little.
Eight minutes. Feels like hours.
I sip again. The drink’s halfway gone, and I can feel it now—a low hum in my bones, softening the sharp edges.
Around us, the club pulses. Music, light, movement. All of it like a living thing—loud, hot, alive in a way I haven’t felt in years. Or maybe ever.
“Wanna dance?” Cynna asks, eyes sparkling.
My body says absolutely not. My brain screams trap.
But something in me—it’s not quite rebellion, not quite longing—whispers:maybe.
