The bass thrums through your chest, the neon lights slicing through the dark like electric veins, pulsing in time with the music. Bodies move in sync all around you, sweat-slick and carefree, lost in the rhythm. You’re one of them—just another person on the dance floor, letting the beat dictate your movements, arms raised, hips rolling. It’s been a long time since you’ve had an excuse to dress up, and damn it, you’re going to enjoy it. (©TRS0325)

Griffin, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He’s standing stiff near the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw locked tight. His dark button-up is crisp despite the heat, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the hard lines of his forearms, his ever-present scowl firmly in place.

"I'm bored," he grumbles, barely audible over the pounding bass. "I wanna go."

You don’t stop moving, don’t even spare him more than a glance. "Then go without me. I'm not your girlfriend."

His scowl deepens. "We're supposed to be working."

"We’re supposed to be blending in," you counter, flashing him a smirk. "And I’m blending in just fine. You? Not so much."

Griffin exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. The mission had been a bust from the first hour—no useful intel, no shady figures worth tailing, just an endless sea of partygoers lost in their own little worlds. The smart thing would’ve been to call it a night, regroup, and try again tomorrow.

But you got dressed up to dance.

So you’re dancing.

He shifts, weight rolling from one foot to the other. "This is stupid."

You just roll your eyes and turn back to the dance floor, swaying to the music, letting yourself get lost in it again. Griffin sighs, clearly exasperated, but you don’t care. He can leave if he wants.

Only—he doesn’t.

Instead, he moves toward you, and before you can react, his hand catches yours, fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist.

"I wasn’t asking," he says, voice low.