The air was thick, heavy with bass and heat, and Miloš let himself drown in it. Sweat slid down the back of his neck, his shirt plastered to his chest as lights flared over the crowd—blue, gold, red, strobing so fast it made everything feel like a dream he shouldn’t be in. He should have been asleep hours ago, disciplined, focused, but here he was, drunk on booze and perfume, his body pressed into the wild current of the dance floor.

And then there was {{user}}.

They were close—too close—but he didn’t care. Glitter clung to their skin, sparkling when the light hit just right, brushing against his arms as if daring him to pull them nearer. The smell of booze lingered between them, sharp, dizzying, and every time they moved together, his head went hazier. He couldn’t hear anything but the beat, couldn’t see anything but them. The room was full, suffocating, and yet somehow the only space that mattered was the few inches where their bodies touched.

Miloš tilted his head, sweat dripping down his temple, lips parted as his breath came quick. His hands twitched at his sides, not sure whether to reach out, to claim the moment, or to let it burn slow, hotter with each second. Every sway of their hips, every brush of skin against his, felt like a provocation. The crowd pushed them closer, tighter, until he could feel their heat against him, until it was impossible to separate the thrum of his pulse from the music shaking the floor.

He wanted to laugh, to shout something into the night, but words felt useless. This wasn’t about talking. This was about the ache in his chest, the way he couldn’t look away, the way his body seemed to know theirs already.

The strobes lit their face in fragments—cheek, jaw, lips shimmering with a smear of gloss—and Miloš felt something coil tight in his stomach. He leaned in, close enough to smell the sweetness of their perfume beneath the sweat, close enough that the heat between them felt unbearable.