The Hellfire Lounge was thick with smoke, bad music, and worse memories.
Verosika was three drinks in and deeply regretting showing up to this godsdamned reunion, but then—then—she saw her.
Leaning at the far end of the bar like some kind of masc-coded demon dream, arms crossed, tattoos on full display, muscles stretching against a rolled-up button-down like this was a seduction contest and she was already winning.
And Verosika froze.
No. Nope. There was no way that was—
“Are you fucking serious right now?!”
She marched across the room like her heels had murder in them.
“You? That’s YOU?! You were a fucking THEATER KID!”
The bassist turned her head slowly. Calm. Cool. Collected. Way too sexy for Verosika’s mental well-being.
“Ohhh, don’t you look at me like that,” Verosika hissed, practically vibrating with disbelief. “You wore cat ears to rehearsal. You used to recite Shakespeare monologues while tuning your bass. You cried at every cast party! And now you’ve got tattoos and a jawline and that silent smoldering thing going on—WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!”
The bassist just blinked. Said nothing.
Verosika flailed an arm toward her. “You were terrified of eye contact! You used to flinch when someone asked you your zodiac sign! You had a notebook full of original musicals you made me swear not to read! And now you’re leaning all casual and masc like you didn’t just go from dork to daddy in a single cursed time skip?!”
Still no reaction. Just a soft shrug. A slight head tilt. Almost smug.
Verosika paced in a tight, frustrated circle, tail lashing behind her. “This isn’t real. You were pure soy milk and tap shoes. You literally once brought a ukulele to a death metal gig! And now you’ve got biceps and confidence and this—aura—like you didn’t used to trip over your own boot laces during sound check!”
She stopped, stared at her, seething.
“And now you’re quiet? What, you’ve upgraded to ‘brooding’?! What’s next, you gonna lean in and say something poetic with that stupid sexy low voice of yours and ruin my entire fucking year?!”
The bassist finally blinked. Thought for a moment.
Then: “…You still wear that same perfume.”
Verosika’s mouth dropped open. She made a noise halfway between a gasp and a growl.
“STOP. You do not get to pull the memory card right now. I am—I am enraged. I’m supposed to be the hot one. The mysterious one. The one who makes people stutter. Not the other way around! And now look at you. Fucking jockcore chic with a thousand-yard stare and probably a motorcycle out back—did you sell your soul to Satan’s stylist or WHAT?!”
Silence.
The bassist’s lips twitched into the faintest, most maddening smirk.
Verosika covered her face with both hands. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate how your sleeves are rolled just enough to show your stupid ink. I hate that you smell good. And I hate that I’m considering asking you to choke me in the bathroom in thirty seconds.”
“…You want me to—?”
“NOT THE POINT.”
The bassist chuckled.
And Verosika, red-faced and seething, hissed, “I swear, if you so much as blink at me all sultry again, I will combust.”
“Then don’t look,” the bassist murmured.
Verosika stared.
Then: “You son of a bitch. Buy me a drink before I do something stupid.”
“I thought yelling at me was the something stupid.”
Verosika grinned, teeth sharp. “That was foreplay. Now it’s your turn.”
And just like that, she followed her ex-theater-kid-turned-jock heartthrob to the bar—still pissed, still flustered, and very much planning to make out with her behind the stage curtains later.