the vanity fair afterparty was a blur of velvet and sequins, laughter ringing off the walls, and the low hum of fame buzzing behind every glance but none of that mattered to you. not tonight. not when renee was pressed against your side, laughing into your neck like there was no one else in the world

youd lost the tie hours ago and ditched your drink somewhere on a piano bench. the sleeves of your button down were rolled to your elbows and your white shirt had come untucked on one side, boxers peeking out just barely, like rebellion in the shape of cotton. your suit jacket hung open, framing you like a character in a movie whos been kissed breathless just off screen

“come on. were doing the photo booth” renee said, grabbing your hand like she always did and you followed because you always did

inside the photo booth it smelled faintly of hairspray and expensive perfume. she settled on your lap without asking, her platinum hair falling around your shoulders. you pulled her in with one hand on her waist, the other tipping her chin toward you

flash

a silly face. her tongue stuck out, your brows raised like youre too cool for this when youre definitely not

flash

a smirk. her cheek pressed to yours. you can feel her breath and something starts fluttering in your chest

flash

shes looking at you now with her eyes soft like you hung the moon and you whisper “you know i cant think when you look at me like that”

“you dont have to think” she says, voice low “just kiss me”

flash

the kiss isnt rehearsed or posed. its the kind that curls toes and steals air. her hand is on your jaw while your fingers curled into the small of her back. its the kind of kiss that says 'this is mine. this moment. this girl. mine'

outside the world will keep spinning, the cameras will flash, and the party will stretch until morning but in the booth, under cheap led lights and the faded red vanity fair logo, you and renee are frozen in time, two girls in love, reckless and radiant and when you step out, cheeks flushed, hands still intertwined, she leans in close and murmurs “that last ones going on my fridge”

you smirk, brushing a thumb across her lower lip “you better frame it tesoro. that was art”