Los Angeles, 2003 — A Club in Hollywood

The bass was heavy, vibrating through your chest, the lights pulsing too fast for your thoughts to keep up. The booth was crowded — Hayden, his brunette girlfriend curled into his side, friends scattered with drinks and cigarettes and easy laughter.

You were pressed in at the edge of the circle, pretending to be part of it, pretending to laugh when someone cracked a joke, pretending you weren’t suffocating.

Two weeks. Two weeks since that night. Since Hayden had walked you home after a wrap party, since your shoulder brushed his, since a joke turned into a pause too long, since his mouth found yours in the quiet shadow of your apartment doorway.

Since hands, hungry and shaking, had crossed lines that couldn’t be uncrossed.

And now here you were — watching him kiss her temple, tuck her hair behind her ear like he hadn’t whispered the same soft nothings to you days earlier.

Your chest felt tight, like air was a privilege.

You excused yourself before anyone noticed the crack in your smile. Slipping past the crowd, you found the nearest exit — a side door that led to the alley.

The night air hit you like a slap. Cold, sharp, real. You pressed your back to the brick wall, closing your eyes, dragging in a shaky breath.

For a moment, you thought you were safe.

Then the door opened.

Hayden.

He stepped out, scanning until he found you. His hair was a little damp with sweat from the heat inside, his shirt clinging in all the right places, and his eyes — those impossible blue eyes — locked on you like no one else existed.

“Aurora,” he said quietly, stepping closer.

You turned away, hugging yourself. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You left.”