"And to friends who threaten violence on our behalf," I add.
"To restraining orders if needed," Alex adds with a slight smile.
We drink to that.
Eventually, one drink becomes two. Two becomes three.
The edges blur, and I let them.
The alcohol spreads warmth through my chest, making everything softer.
And then the opening notes of "I Want To Break Free" explode through the speakers.
"THIS IS MY SONG!" I shriek, and suddenly we're abandoning our drinks and shoving through the crowd like it's a religious experience.
I climb onto the bar without thinking—or permission—andrealize very quickly that I'm significantly more than tipsy right now.
But honestly? I don't give a single fuck. I just want to dance.
By the second chorus, the entire bar has joined in. Everyone's singing, swaying, throwing their arms up like we're at our own private Queen concert and Freddie Mercury himself is about to materialize.
I'm lost in it—the music, the movement, the feeling of being completely, recklessly free.
The song transitions eventually—“Bette Davis Eyes,"that slow, sultry beat—and that's when it happens.
A shift in the air. A pull I feel before I see.
My eyes find him like they're magnetized, like my body knew he was here before my brain caught up. Nate’s standing in the doorway with Jay, but he's not looking at Jay or the crowd or anything else.
He's looking at me.
And the way he's looking at me?—
Fuck.
Everything else falls away. The music becomes distant. The crowd dissolves into shadows. There's just him, backlit by the entrance, absolutely still except for the rise and fall of his chest.
Recognition hits first. Then surprise, blooming across his face like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. Then something darker. Hotter. More dangerous. Our eyes lock, and even drunk, even elevated on this bar with fifty people between us, I feel it.
That pull.
That gravitational force that's always existed between us, suddenly amplified by distance and want and the fact that I'm half-dressed and barefoot and dancing like I don't have a care in the world.
His lips part.
His eyes track down slowly taking in my wild hair, my flushed skin, the way my dress has ridden up my thighs from dancing. Taking in all of me as if he's cataloging every detail toreplay later. And when his gaze drags back up to meet mine, the heat there nearly knocks me off the bar.
It's not disapproval.
It's hunger.
Pure, undisguised, barely restrained hunger. Like he's two seconds away from crossing this bar and doing exactly that.
Time snaps back to speed. The music surges. The crowd roars. Reality rushes back in. But he's still staring. And I'm still moving because he's watching me like that and my body has decided it wants to give him a show.
"Her hair is Harlow gold, her lips are sweet surprise..."
I sing it to the room but really, I'm singing it to him.
