You’ve been talking to her for weeks — maybe months — that in-between space where everything is “friendly” but feels like something else.

You and your friends know her name because you can’t stop mentioning it.

She’s the one you describe with too much detail.

The one who texts you things that sit in your chest for hours.

You didn’t invite her tonight… but she knew where you’d be.

---

It’s girls’ night — loud music, neon lights, your dress short and sparkly, shoulders bare, hair soft.

You’re in the middle of laughing with your friends, drink in hand, mid-sentence talking about her.

“—I mean, she always looks so good without trying. Like, who even wears a belt like that and still looks hot? It’s unfair—”

You don’t get to finish, because a familiar low voice slides right behind you, close enough that you feel the heat of it against your neck.

“You talkin’ about me, baby?”

Your breath catches. The table goes silent.

You turn and there she is — leaning against the wall like she owns the place, that worn leather jacket hanging open, her hair pushed back, eyes dark under the low bar light.

There’s a slow smirk when she looks you over, taking in the dress, the shimmer, the bare skin.

Her tongue presses against her cheek.

“That’s what you wore out?” Her voice drops, teasing.

“You tryin’ to kill me or just every poor bastard in this bar?”

Your face heats instantly. She pushes off the wall, boots heavy against the floor as she steps close enough to fix the little strap that’s slipped off your shoulder, fingertips barely brushing your skin.

“You look good, though.” “Real good.”

She leans in, voice lower now, just for you.

“Next time you wear somethin’ that small, I’m drivin’ you myself.”

Your friends explode into laughter, and you’re standing there speechless — half embarrassed, half thrilled — while she just smirks, tips her hat slightly, and adds with that calm grin:

“Finish your drink, baby. I’ll be outside.”