No… she’s never done this.

Not like this.

She’s supposed to be home. With Holland. The silence in their house probably louder than their last fight—the kind that lingers in the walls, sharp and unsaid. But Sarah’s here. Reeling. Hollowed. And then there’s you.

You, all radiant and reckless beneath the molasses lighting of this godforsaken bar. Laughing like a flame, like you don’t even know how cruel it is to look like that. And Sarah? She’s trying to behave. She is. But her hand trembles as it lifts her glass, already ordering your next drink before she even realizes her lips moved.

You're too young. Too magnetic. Too much danger wrapped in a smile. And she hates how alive that makes her feel.

You lean in with your knee brushing hers and something inside her breaks. Cracks. Spills out.

She laughs—a short, unhinged little sound—then stares into your eyes like she’s staring down the very edge of a cliff.

“I shouldn’t want you,” she breathes, voice soaked in whiskey and ruin, her hand reaching—barely brushing your thigh. Just enough to feel the tremor. “But you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

And then, quieter, like a confession squeezed between two heartbeats:

“…and I think you already know that.”