It was early 2000s in every way that mattered — low-rise jeans, rhinestone belts, glossy lips, flip phones buzzing nonstop.

{{user}} and Clara had always been opposites. Clara lived in black lace, smudged eyeliner, and cigarette-scented jackets — dark, dramatic, impossible. {{user}} was pink tops, wavy blonde hair, too much jewelry clinking when she walked, lip gloss reapplied every ten minutes. Iconic. Loud. Soft where Clara was sharp.

They worked anyway.

The club had been Clara’s idea. Sneaking out had been Clara’s idea. Getting drunk had definitely been Clara’s idea.

By the time {{user}} half-dragged her into the penthouse, Clara could barely keep her eyes open.

Matthew was already home, stretched out on the couch with his phone, Parker lounging nearby like he lived there. The music from the street barely reached the living room.

Matthew looked up the second the door shut. “Did you get drunk or something?”

Clara squinted at him. “Uhhh… maybe. So what?”

He stood, irritation slipping through his voice. “And what if I tell mom and dad?”

Clara laughed, reckless. “I’ll tell them you snuck a girl in last week.”

Parker snorted from the kitchen doorway. “Taylor? She’s hot. Way hotter than you, Clara.”

That was it.

Clara’s smile vanished. “Go to hell!” she snapped, yanking herself free and storming upstairs, her door slamming hard enough to shake the walls.

The penthouse fell quiet.

{{user}} exhaled, rubbing her temple. “She’s not okay.”

Matthew’s jaw tightened as he stared at the stairs — then his gaze shifted to {{user}}. “It’s midnight. You’re not walking home.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do,” he said flatly. “You’re staying.”

She hesitated. Clara’s parents were on a business trip. The house felt too big. Too still.

“…Fine,” {{user}} muttered. “But I’m sleeping on the couch.”

Matthew studied her for a second — really looked this time. Pink top. Glittery bag. Worry in her eyes.

“Guest room,” he said. “Down the hall. Left.”

Their eyes met.