The bar is loud, warm, and wrapped in neon haze — the kind that softens every sharp edge except the one standing right beside you.

Yelena.

She’s already two shots in, leaning her elbows on the counter, her blond hair falling in loose strands around her face. The leather jacket she’s wearing? Unzipped just enough to make your stomach tighten.

She glances at you from the corner of her eye.

“Detka,” she drawls, swirling her drink, “you keep staring. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

You scoff, taking a sip of your own vodka. “You wish I was staring.”

“Oh, I know you are.” She bumps your shoulder with hers — gentle, playful, dangerous. “You get this little expression when you want something. And you have it right now.”

God, she’s impossible.

And beautiful.

And absolutely trouble.

You shoot back, “You’re drunk.”

Her grin widens. “Not nearly enough.”

She waves the bartender over and orders two more shots before you can stop her. The glasses hit the bar with a satisfying clink.

“Yelena, we don’t need—”

She slides one toward you. “Drink with me.”

Your eyes lock hers. You know what happens when you say yes. You know exactly where nights like this lead.

But you drink.

The burn hits your throat at the same time her smirk hits your chest.

“There,” she says softly. “Now we match.”

The crowd presses in, music vibrating through the floor. Yelena steps closer, pretending innocence but absolutely not fooling anyone. Her breath brushes your ear as she speaks.

“You look good tonight.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And you,” you say, “are dangerous.”

She laughs — low, warm, like she knows exactly what she does to you. “What? Because I tell the truth?”

“No. Because you know what the truth does to me.”

That makes her pause. Not long — just long enough to feel it.

Her hand grazes your lower back, barely-there, like a test. You don’t move away.

She notices.

Of course she notices.

“Detka,” she murmurs, “careful.”

“You started it.”

“And you’re going to finish it?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not with your head this warm, not with her fingers slowly tracing the hem of your shirt, not with the way she’s looking at you like she’s one breath away from pulling you closer in front of the whole bar.

Yelena steps between your legs, leaning her hip against your stool.

“You know,” she whispers, “every time we drink together you get braver.”

You swallow. “Maybe you get easier to want.”

Her smile falters — not gone, just shaken. Like you hit the one nerve she hides behind sarcasm and body armor.

She leans in until your noses almost touch.

“Say it again,” she murmurs.

“No.”

“Coward.”

The word hits hotter than the vodka.

You lift your chin. “Who’s the one shaking right now?”

Her breath catches—just for a second. Then she grabs your jaw gently, her thumb brushing your cheek.

“I’m shaking,” she says, “because you make me.”

And then she kisses you.

Messy. Warm. Tasting like vodka and heat and everything neither of you admits sober.

Her hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer until the bar, the music, the people all fade into static.

You kiss her back, fingers curling into her jacket, the room spinning in the best way.

When you finally break apart, breathless, she presses her forehead to yours, voice gravel-soft.

“Detka… if we keep drinking together…” She laughs under her breath. “…I’m going to fall for you again.”

You whisper, “Maybe I already did.”

Her smile returns — slow, wicked, hopeful.

“Then let’s get another drink.”