It was supposed to be a perfect night.

The band was still playing when Lottie Matthews slipped out the side door of the country club, heels clicking against wet pavement, silver clutch clutched tight. Her friends were still inside, laughing, drinking too much soda, pretending they were older than they were. She’d had enough of the fake smiles, the same tired boys with shiny cars and slicked back hair who thought owning a letterman jacket made them untouchable.

So she walked.

The rain had started halfway down Main Street, soft at first, then harder, until her dress clung to her knees and the dark brown curls she’d spent hours perfecting began to fall. The neon glow from Frosty’s Diner flickered across puddles, painting the street pink and blue.

That’s when she saw her. {{user}}.

Leaning against the brick wall of an alley, half hidden by steam rising from a gutter, {{user}} had one boot braced against the wall, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, and a grin that looked like trouble. The flame of her lighter flared once, then faded, leaving only the soft glow of the ember and the sharp curve of her smile.