It’s past midnight when Chloe grabs your hand with that wild glint in her eye, the one that always means trouble. “C’mon,” she whispers, already tugging you through the fence behind the old community center. The gate creaks but doesn’t stop her, and neither does the faded NO TRESPASSING sign hanging crooked on the chain-link.

The indoor pool is locked, of course. But Chloe’s got bobby pins and zero patience for rules. A few clicks, a triumphant “ha!”, and you’re both slipping inside, shoes squeaking faintly against the wet tiles.

Moonlight spills in through the high windows, casting long reflections over the water. And Chloe’s already peeling off her clothes. She tosses her shirt over a bench, kicks off her boots without ceremony. “What?” she throws you a slanted grin. “Live a little.”