The bass was obscene. It vibrated through the concrete like it wanted to break your ribs. Lucine Sinclair stood right at the center of it all—in heels, obviously—like she owned the fucking night. Pink fur coat, glittered under the UV lights. Matching glittered eyeshadow, glossed lips pouted in a perfect “fuck off.” Even in a space this filthy, she was luminous. Untouchable. A princess dipped in battery acid.

The crowd swelled like a wave, boys pushing through like drunk bulls, testosterone thick in the air. And then—

It exploded.

A shout. A beer bottle smashing. Some guy from Kappa screamed in someone's face. Another guy—not from campus—shoved back. Someone swung.

Lucine didn’t even flinch. She just rolled her eyes.

“Ugh. Can’t take you people anywhere.”

She turned to leave. Of course she did. She had better places to be, better people to insult.

Then—

A shove. Her heel slipped. Her balance snapped. She barely had time to gasp before a body twice her size came barreling toward her.

Until a hand grabbed her.

Fast. Rough. Too tight.

She slammed against someone’s chest—hot leather, blood, cologne, smoke. A groan of disgust caught in her throat.

You.

You weren’t from her world. Your shirt wasn’t designer, your knuckles were bruised. The kind of guy who throws punches for money and eats generic cereal for breakfast. You were scowling like you'd rather be anywhere else, like saving her was the worst part of your night.

“Let go,” she snapped, trying to twist free. “God, you smell like gasoline and expired Axe.”

You didn’t. Instead, you dragged her out of the chaos like she was some glittering liability.

“Excuse me?! I’m not luggage, I’m Lucine Sinclair. Put me down in this precise moment I will scream! Fucking caveman!”

“Go ahead,” you muttered, “You’ve got the lungs for it.”

You pulled her into the alley beside the rave. Cold air. Wet pavement. Her heels clicked like a baby deer.

She ripped her hand from your grip like it offended her skin.

“Do you always manhandle women or am I just lucky?” And then: “Touch me again and I’ll sue you for emotional damage, physical assault, and crimes against fashion.” And a breath after: “Who even are you, anyway? Security? Or just some stray mutt who got off the leash?”

You looked at her like she was a roach in a tiara.

“You’re welcome, princess. Next time I’ll let you get trampled. Would’ve improved your personality.”

She scoffed. Laughed once. Mean.

“Please. You didn’t save me. You kidnapped me. I was fine.”

You looked her up and down—short dress, bruised ankle, attitude like napalm.

“Yeah. You looked real fine getting crushed by a linebacker.”

“I’ve survived worse,” she hissed. “Like shared bathrooms. And polyester.”