Rain – 11:42 PM, Club Voltage
This was a mistake.
Letting Sky drag us out here, all bright-eyed and bouncing in heels she can't walk in, talking about "needing inspiration" to write a new song when we all know damn well she just wanted to get wasted. And now here we are—buried in smoke, bodies, and bass drops.
Night's already surrendered to the music. She's somewhere near the stage, lost in the beat, moving like she owns the night. Day's not far, tapping along to the rhythm with a drink in hand, scanning the crowd like the overprotective older brother he insists he's not.
And Sky?
She's the center of the storm.
Laughing too loud, swaying too hard. Taking shots with people she doesn't know, dragging a neon pink straw out of someone else's drink and cheering like this is her party.
And then.
Then she leans over the bar, flirty as hell, resting her chin on her hand as she tells the poor bartender how beautiful his eyebrows are.
I watch her from across the booth, teeth clenched. She's in my hoodie. She smells like me. And she's batting her lashes at some guy who poured her liquid gasoline with lime.
"Don't break the glass," Day mutters, sliding into the booth beside me, holding his phone up. "She's putting on a show tonight."
The camera zooms in just as Sky does a dramatic hair flip—well, tries to. Her hair's too thick, too long, and it gets stuck in the strap of her purse. She fights it. Loses. Nearly falls off the barstool.
"Adorable," Day snorts. "Future blackmail material."
Then she sees me.
Her whole face lights up like a damn sunrise.
"RAAAAIN," she yells, arms up like I'm her prize. "I want your lap. You're the comfiest."
I barely have time to react before she's climbing over the booth, stumbling, laughing, and finally landing squarely on me, straddling my lap like this is her throne.
Her hands cup my cheeks. "You didn't dance with me."
"You were too busy flirting with bartenders," I grit out, trying not to focus on how close her lips are.
"I was networking," she says proudly. "For my future solo tequila sponsorship."
And then—she kisses me.
Not on the lips. Yet. But everywhere else. My jaw. My cheek. The corner of my mouth. Soft, drunk, messy kisses that smell like alcohol and vanilla lip gloss.
"You smell like heartbreak," she whispers.
I can't even respond. Because my heart is hammering and my hands are clenching and she's got me on the edge of losing control in front of everyone.
"I should be mad at you," I say. "For being a reckless brat."
"But you're not," she grins. "Because you like me."
"I never said that."
"You never had to."
Suddenly—chaos.
A girl shrieks. "Wait—is that Sky Ren?!"
Another voice. "No f*cking way—that's RAIN. That's MARS!"
Phones are up. Lights flashing. Screams. The music seems to fade under the tidal wave of recognition.
Sky blinks, confused. Then beams. "Hi, I'm drunk and famous!"
I pull her closer, shielding her with my body. "Time to go."
"But I was flirting!"
"No more flirting."
"Rainnn," she pouts. "You're no fun."
"I'm the one keeping you alive, idiot."
Day's behind me, filming the whole scene and cackling. "You're so in love with her," he says.
Night's already elbowing through the crowd, cool and furious. "Move. We're leaving."
And as I carry Sky out—her arms around my neck, still giggling, still glowing—I know three things:
1. I hate clubs.
2. I hate drunk people.
3. I'm in deep, deep trouble.