The rave was spilling out of some abandoned industrial lot, open sky overhead, lasers slicing through fog like restless comets. The bass wasn’t just loud—it was alive, crawling under skin and shaking ribs loose.

Reverie was laughing when she did it—tilting a small glass bottle back like she was invincible.

She almost bumped into him.

A hand steadied her by the elbow before she could spill it.

“Whoa there,” he said, not stern—amused. “Smuggling contraband? Bold.”

Utility camo, the shape of his dog tag revealed ever so slightly through it

She lifted the bottle slightly. “It’s just a drink.”

“Yeah,” he replied, glancing at it, then back at her with a crooked almost-smile. “And I’m just supposed to confiscate it.”

“Supposed to?”

He shrugged. “Technically.”