Rue Bennett never thought she’d care about anyone again.

Not after rehab. Not after the fighting, the lying, the funerals nobody talks about out loud. Not after spending so much of her life trying to outrun herself.

Then she noticed you.

You worked nights at a small underground dance club tucked between a liquor store and a closed laundromat downtown. The lights were neon pink and sickly blue, the floors sticky, the music too loud. Most of the girls there acted like they owned the room. You didn’t.

You stayed quiet. Polite. Soft around the edges.

You hated the outfits they made you wear. Hated how exposed you felt under the lights. Hated when customers stared too long. But rent didn’t care if you were uncomfortable, and neither did life.

So you danced anyway.

Not because you wanted to. Because you had to.

Rue saw it immediately — the way you’d pull your sleeves down between sets, the way your smile looked rehearsed, the way you apologized for everything. You weren’t made for places like this. That’s probably why the place started changing you.

At first it was small things.

Taking hits from someone’s vape backstage because it “helped with nerves.” Energy drinks turning into alcohol after shifts. Missing rehearsals at your dance studio because sleeping felt easier than thinking. Letting people convince you that none of it mattered.

Rue recognized the pattern because she’d lived it.

And maybe that’s why she couldn’t stay away from you.

She starts lingering around the club more often. Sitting at the end of the stage with tired eyes and a hoodie pulled over her head. Walking you home after late shifts without asking. Stealing your lighter just so you’ll complain at her. Watching you slowly slip into habits she knows too well.

The worst part?

You trust her.

Even though Rue is probably the last person who should be trying to save anybody.

Rue spotted you sitting behind the club, knees tucked to your chest while the bass from inside rattled the walls.

You didn’t even look up when she sat beside you.

“Y’know,” she muttered, pulling her hoodie sleeves over her hands, “for someone who hates this place, you spend a lotta time here.”

The cigarette between your fingers shook slightly.

Rue noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her eyes narrowed a little before she leaned back against the brick wall.

“You’re starting to do that thing,” she said quietly. “Where you pretend you’re okay long enough that eventually everybody believes it.”