“I still don’t know what that means.”
“It means,” I reply, stepping forward toward the sound, “we’re going that way.”
“We’re absolutely not.”
“We absolutely are.”
He steps directly in front of me. “We are not following British rave music into the night in the middle of Amsterdam.”
“You’re scared.” I tease, grinning at him.
His eyes narrow at me. “I am not scared.”
“Right.”
“I am evaluating risk.”
“Of course you are.”
“This is how people get stabbed in dark alleyways.”
“This is how people dance and have fun,” I argue. He still doesn’t move. Then the bass slams again, properly this time. I tilt my head, still grinning. “The terrifying Sergeant Zakirov,” I say lightly, “is afraid of Voodoo People.”
His jaw clenches. “I’m not afraid.”
“It’s fine, fun police,” I continue, because apparently, I’ve decided to die tonight. “We can go back to the hotel. Put something safe on. Maybe a bit of ballroom.”
“Careful.”
“What? Do you need me to hold your hand?”
He steps closer and grabs my wrist. “If I follow that music,” he says, his voice low and steady despite the bass, “you are not allowed to complain about the consequences.”
“What consequences?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he turns and starts walking toward the music, and this time I’m the one being dragged.
The warehouse looks exactly like some random place you’d get tetanus. It’s a collage of different-coloured bricks, metal doors, and no signs. Light bleeds out around the edges, and bass thuds through the walls like it’s trying to escape.
“What consequences?” I ask again, still grinning.
He doesn’t answer, and that’s when I realise I might have miscalculated. He doesn’t slow down at the door or do the thing where he scans, evaluates and silently judges everyone within a fifty-metre radius. Instead, he grabs the door handle and pushes. The door swings open, and the bass hits me square in the chest. Then the heat, bodies, and The Prodigy are tearing through a random warehouse in Amsterdam.
“Oh, that’s sexy,” I mutter as Ari steps inside first, the door slamming behind us and blocking the outside world. Now all that exists is strobe light, movement, and the kind of bass that makes your whole body rattle.
For a few seconds, Ari stands stock still like he’s recalibrating. Then he turns his head slightly toward me. The drop hits, the crowd surges, and before I can decide whether I’m leading or he is, he grabs my wrist again and pulls me straight into the middle of it.
The bass pounds again, and bodies press in closer. I turn to face him. “You’re not scared of Voodoo People then?” I shout over the sound.
He leans closer so I can hear him. “I am not afraid of music.”
“Good.” I grab the front of his jacket and pull him closer. “If you’re going to double down,” I say, “at least pretend you’re enjoying it.”
“Give me something to enjoy, then.”
I lean in, but he catches it instantly. “Too many people watching,” he says, close to my ear.
“I don’t care.” The bass thumps through my chest like a second heartbeat, each pulse dragging me deeper into the haze of the rave. The air is thick with sweat, weed smoke, and the electric hum of bodies pressed too close together. My vision swims — fuck, that space cake hit hard — but all I can focus on is Ari in front of me, his broad shoulders slightly rolling with the music, his half-up blond hair flowing down the back of his head. He’s got that smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
