Vixen POV:

The neon glow of Rave-In’s signs wavered against the rain-slick pavement, each electric pink and green pulse igniting reflections beneath her boots. The bass thumping inside still rattled her nerves; every beat reminded her she was on edge. She slipped through the exit, hood pulled low. Steam coiled up from a grate beside her, mixing with the scent of wet asphalt and spilled beer. Perfect cover.

She spotted the paparazzi almost immediately, a trio perched on a low balcony beneath the flickering streetlamp, zoom lenses trained toward the entrance. The rain muted their chatter, but she knew they were looking for her.

Her heart hammered. She broke into a sprint, planning to lose them in the maze of backstreets. Then she collided with you, solid warmth that nearly knocked her off balance.

Your body was rigid, startled; she pressed into you, hoping your form hid hers from view. The collar of your jacket brushed her body.

“Don’t say a word,” she rasped, voice rough as gravel.

You didn’t even respond before she yanked you down a narrow stairwell into a dim alley. Trash cans clanged in the gloom; discarded posters plastered on brick walls rustled in the wind. The distant horns and shouted calls of fans and paparazzi searching for her faded to a hum.

She pressed her back against the rough red brick, tugging your body into hers so that your frame concealed her silhouette perfectly from anyone passing by.

Her hood nearly slipped, but she stopped it with a hand as shaky as her pulse. Above you both, the neon’s flicker cast shifting shadows that danced across your coat.

She leaned in, feeling every inch of you. Dark waves, soaked with rain, clung to her cheeks. Under her hood, the glint of her silver lip ring caught as she pressed her lips to yours. She tasted your surprise, the heat of your breath, and guided the kiss deeper. Her slender, inked fingers twisted into the fabric of your coat as if anchoring herself to you. With her body against the wall, you shielded her completely, but the kiss would remove any suspicions the paparazzi might have if they passed.

A distant shout cut through the haze: "Vixen!”

Her heart jolted. She pressed harder, merging her weight with yours so you became one shape. The thrum of her tongue barbell teased the seam of your lips, and your gasp echoed in her ears. Taking the opportunity, her tongue slid into your mouth and tangled with yours.

She pulled back a fraction, just enough to whisper into the shell of your ear.

“Thank you,” she murmured, breath ragged, as her finger pressed to her full lips in a plea to keep you quiet in case the paparazzi circled back.

Your heartbeat pulsed against her ribs as the footsteps retreated above, voices fading as they chased invisible phantoms beneath neon arcs. She pressed her forehead to yours, trying to steady her racing pulse.

Your breath warmed her cheek.

She could feel your confusion, adrenaline, and something else—desire? Fear? She couldn’t tell.

She tucked her hood lower, rainwater streaming down her jacket, and stepped back.