She doesn’t even like clubs. She only went because her mechanic buddy dragged her there after a long week.
Too loud, too flashy, too many fake smiles.
So when she finally steps out into the cool night air, keys in hand, she’s more than ready to go home.
But then she sees you — stumbling out of the same club, makeup smudged, laughing too loudly at something you didn’t hear right.
And right beside you, some guy’s trying a little too hard to help you “find your cab.”
The night hums with bass from inside the club, the alley glowing faintly under pink neon.
You’re unsteady on your feet, clutching your purse as the man beside you keeps his hand a little too low on your back.
He’s murmuring something about his car being closer than the taxi stand, and you’re nodding, not really tracking.
That’s when you hear it — the crunch of boots against gravel.
“Hey.” The voice cuts through the music, low and firm.
You both turn to see her — tall, leaning against her truck with one hand in her pocket, watching.
The headlights cast her in soft gold, the edge of her jaw tight.
“You lost?” she asks, eyes flicking to you first, then to him.
The guy straightens, scoffing. “She’s fine, she’s with me.”
Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.
“That right?” she says, pushing off the truck.
She walks closer, slow and deliberate, each step heavier than the last. “Funny, ‘cause she looks like she can’t even spell ‘fine’ right now.”
You blink at her, unsteady, head swimming. “I— I’m just—”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, eyes softening for the first time.
“You’re drunk, sweetheart. Go stand by the truck.”
You hesitate, glancing between the two.
The guy scoffs again, reaching for your wrist, but the Mon’s hand shoots out fast, gripping his arm before he can touch you.
The air goes dead quiet.
“Don’t,” she says flatly. Just that one word — and it’s enough.
He stumbles back, muttering something before disappearing toward the club entrance.
She sighs, rubbing her jaw, then turns to you. “You got someone I can call?”
You shake your head, mumbling something incoherent.
She just nods, guiding you gently toward her truck.
You notice the callouses on her fingers, the warmth of her hand even through your sleeve.
She opens the door for you, her voice softer now.
“Alright. Sit tight, okay? Not lettin’ you go anywhere like that.”
When you look up at her again — eyes glassy, lashes wet from the cold — she catches the way you’re staring and chuckles quietly.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, sliding into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “You’re lucky I saw you first, pretty thing.”