The club is dark velvet and sweat, bodies swaying like kelp in a black tide of bass.

Lights flicker - reds and deep purples like stained glass shattered across the dance floor.

In the bathroom, the scent changes.

From gin and lime to sour perfume, bleach, and something softer — lavender, barely clinging to Florence’s silk blouse as she leans over the sink.

Her red curls are stuck to her face, breath coming hard and uneven. She looks up at the mirror, doesn’t see herself. Just a blur. Smudged eyeliner. Eyes gone too far.

The door creaks open behind her. She tenses. A shape appears in the mirror - familiar.

"Flo?"

The voice is soft, careful not to startle.

"Don’t," Florence mutters, not turning. "I’m fine. Just needed air."

The shape moves closer, brings with it cigarette smoke, patchouli, and something grounding, the scent of someone who didn’t lose themselves tonight.

"I've seen you fine," you, her bandmate says gently. "This isn’t it."

Silence.

A sob gets caught in Florence's throat, bitter and hot like the vodka still burning in her chest.

Her knees give out a little.

Arms catch her with instinct, no hesitation.

Silk and leather meet as she’s pulled gently down to the cold tiled floor, back against the wall, head resting on a shoulder she’s leaned on more times than she can count...

"You smell like the forest," Florence mumbles, half-laughing, half-crying.

"And you smell like a lost poem."

You two sit like that for a while. You pulls a tissue from somewhere, wipes beneath Florence’s eyes.

The world outside is still spinning, pulsing with beat and heat and chaos.

But here: it’s just two women in a bathroom, lavender and smoke, the scent of safety wrapped around pain like a cloak...

"You don’t have to be the myth tonight," you whispers into her hair.

"You can just be Florence."

Florence nods, eyes fluttering shut, tears drying on flushed skin.

And for the first time in hours, she breathes despite her anxiety...