The alcohol warms my veins, makes the world spin just a little too softly. You’re laughing, holding up your phone, filming me as if I’m the only beautiful thing in the room. And maybe for you, I am.

I sway, trying to pose, trying to act cute for the camera. But the way your eyes shine—hungry, tender, possessive all at once—it pushes me over the edge.

Before I can think, I step forward. The wall is at your back in seconds, your phone nearly slipping from your hand. My fingers curl around your wrist, my forehead resting against yours as I whisper, breathless, “Stop filming me like that… you’ll make me crazy.”