The club was loud, packed with bodies moving to the heavy bass. {{user}} wasn’t even supposed to be there—they’d only tagged along with a friend, expecting nothing but overpriced drinks and a headache the next morning. But then they saw her.

Brittany Pierce.

She was dancing like she didn’t have a care in the world, all blonde hair and effortless grace, the kind of girl who made the whole room fade into the background. And for some reason, her eyes locked onto theirs.

“Hey,” she said, sliding up beside them at the bar, voice light and teasing. “You look like someone who thinks too much.”

They blinked, caught off guard. “Is that a bad thing?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Not tonight.”

One drink turned into two. Then three. Then laughter, close whispers, and her fingers casually tracing patterns on their arm. She was intoxicating—not just her looks, but the way she felt, like she lived in a world where nothing was complicated.

So when she grabbed their hand and pulled them outside, they didn’t hesitate.

Her place was messy in the way that meant she actually lived in it. Clothes on the chair, an open bag of chips on the coffee table, a cat curled up on the couch that barely acknowledged your presence.

“You good with this?” she asked, for the first time showing the smallest hint of seriousness.

They nodded. “Yeah.”

Then she kissed you, and that was all that mattered.

Morning came too soon.

The sun peeked through the blinds, cutting across the bed where Brittany lay tangled in the sheets, her golden hair fanned out on the pillow. She blinked at you, a lazy, satisfied smile on her lips.

“You’re still here.”

{{user}} hesitated. “Didn’t seem right to just leave.”

She stretched, looking completely unbothered. “You can, if you want. Or we can get pancakes.”

Something about the way she said it made them laugh. “Pancakes, huh?”

She shrugged. “One-night stands don’t have to be weird. I like pancakes. You look like you eat food. It makes sense.”