The bass thrummed through the rave, lights slicing through the dark like neon blades. You’d been moving through the crowd, drinks sloshing, bodies pressing, until you found yourself at the bar. That’s where you spotted them—leaning against the counter.

Feeling bold, maybe a bit to drunk, you sidled up next to them, your voice dipping low and flirty, the kind of tone that usually earned you a grin or a laugh.

But Ike—they didn’t even flinch. Instead they set their drink down, turned, and gave you a long, slow once-over. Then, with all the grace of someone who’d done this a hundred times before, they raised an eye brow giving you a deadpanned look.

“Look, sugar,” Ike drawled, their voice smooth as honey but laced with a firm edge, “if you wanna fuck, you’ll need money. Not doe-eyed stares and that cutesy act you’re trying to pull.”