Elena stood in front of the mirror, still barefoot, one earring in.
The dress Carmen brought home hung from her shoulders like liquid shadow—black satin, simple cut, low back, nothing excessive. The fabric clung at the hips, loosened just enough at the hem to suggest movement. It wasn't something she would've picked for herself.
Which was exactly the point.
She turned slightly, checking the side view. The straps were thin. Her collarbones sharp in the soft light.
Her shiny, chocolate-brown hair was pinned up in a loose twist, a few strands already escaping, curling softly against the nape of her neck. The glow from the bathroom light brushed across her cheekbones, catching the scatter of freckles just beneath her eyes.
She turned slightly, checked the line of the dress against her figure. She'd always been practical about her body—nothing flashy, nothing for show. But she knew the shape she was in. Subtle curves where they counted, strength in her posture, sun-tinted skin from too many days working outside.
Her eyes met her own in the mirror.
Blue, grey, and a flick of brown around the edges—like dusk pushing through the last bit of light. She didn't linger on them. She never did. But tonight, something about the way they held her reflection felt different.
Not softer. Just more awake.
She slipped in the second earring, let her fingers brush once across her collarbone, and stepped back.
This wasn't her usual. But she didn't flinch from it.
Carmen's voice floated in from the hallway. "You ready?"
Elena looked at herself one last time. Then grabbed her heels, and left the mirror behind.
Carmen was already by the door when Elena stepped out of the bedroom, heels in hand.
She turned—and grinned. "Damn."
Elena arched a brow. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything," Carmen said, giving her an exaggerated once-over. "I'm just taking a moment to appreciate the fact that you own bones under all that grease and denim.
Elena rolled her eyes but didn't hide the small tug of a smile.
Carmen was dressed in a deep burgundy slip dress that shimmered like a second skin. Her skin was a warm olive glow, and her straight dark brown hair was parted clean down in the middle, falling sleek and glossy over her shoulders. Not a strand out of place. Her hazel eyes—gold near the center, green toward the edge—caught everything, and missed nothing.
A delicate gold chain dipped low at her collarbone, catching the hallway light. Her lipstick matched the dress: bold, warm, and unapologetically loud.
Elena gave her a look. "You going full fire hazard tonight?"
Carmen winked. "Only where it counts."
They grabbed their jackets—light, half-for-show—and stepped out into the thick summer evening. The air smelled like pavement and heat, and somewhere far off, music drifted through open windows.
As they walked to the car, Carmen glanced sideways. "You good?"
Elena hesitated. "Yeah."
Carmen didn't believe her, but didn't push. "Cool. Then let's go ruin some stranger's night."
Elena smirked. "That your goal?"
"Always."
The engine started, headlights swept the curb, and they pulled away—into a night that felt like it had teeth.
The entrance didn't look like much. Just an unmarked steel door wedged between a boarded-up print shop and a laundromat that had died a slow death sometime last year. A single flickering light buzzed above it, casting more shadow than glow.
Carmen stopped in front of it and checked her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. "Ready?"
Elena raised an eyebrow. "Do i need a password?"
"Just a face like you don't give a damn," Carmen said. "Which you've mastered, by the way."
Elena gave a quiet smirk as Carmen knocked—twice slow, once fast. A moment later, the door creaked open, and a man in all black stepped aside without a word. Just a nod.
Inside, everything changed.
The air was cooler, thick with the scent of old wood, warm spirits, and something floral hiding beneath it all. The lighting was dim—gold tones spilling from vintage sconces and low-hung chandeliers, dancing across deep leather booths and copper-rimmed glasses.
Music hummed low from somewhere deep inside. Not loud enough to drown conversation, just enough to slow the pulse. It wasn't a club. Not really.
It was a room full of watchers and waiters. Of movement disguised as stillness.
Elena followed Carmen past the bar, eyes scanning automatically—taking in exits, faces, the quiet choreography of people who liked to be seen but never too clearly.
They slid into a high-backed booth in the corner, Carmen first, Elena across from her with a full view of the room.
A server appeared, all smooth voice and matte-black clothes.
"Drinks?" he asked.
Carmen ordered something with gin and violet in the name. Elena kept it simple—whiskey, neat.
The server disappeared. Carmen leaned her chin on her hand, watching her over the flickering candle in the middle of the table.
"Better than the garage?" she asked.
Elena didn't answer.
The drinks arrived fast.
Carmen's was pale violet, dressed with a twist of something candied. Elena's whiskey caught the candlelight, warm and gold in the glass.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.
The music shifted deeper into the night—bass warm and slow, the horn low and aching, curling like smoke through the thick air.
It pulled people forward, away from their corners, closer to the stage where the band played low-lit and half-lost in shadow.
Carmen raised her glass. "Come on. We're too far back."
Elena hesitated. The booth was safe. Shadowed. Seperate. But Carmen was already on her feet, moving through the crowd with a sway in her hips that turned heads. Elena followed.
Closer, the music felt heavier. Like it lived in your chest instead of your ears.
The lights around the band were gold and amber, flickering like candlelight. The rest of the room fell away behind them. Voices softened. Glass clinks dulled.
Carmen leaned in. "Be right back," she said, tapping her glass. "That bartender has a bottle shaped like a snake and i need answers."
Elena nodded once. And then she was alone. The band played, the crowd soft around her. Everything warm, hazy, gilded with low light and sound.
A subtle shift in the air drew her attention. A hum beneath the noise, too gentle to name.
She didn't hear footsteps. Didn't feel contact.
Just heat.
The quiet, unmistakable warmth of another body behind her—close. Not touching, but near enough that her skin responded, alert and aware. Like the air had thickened, wrapped around her spine.
Then it happened.
A slow exhale, low and close. The kind of breath that wasn't meant to be heard—but felt. It brushed the back of her neck, soft and warm, slipping beneath the edge of her hair.
Her breath caught.
Before she could process it, fingers followed—light as smoke, deliberate as a thought.
They touched the space between her shoulder blades, tracing a low, downward path along her spine. Her skin lit up beneath the contact—nerve endings flaring, her body reacting before her mind could decide what it was supposed to mean.
The touch paused just above the curve of her lower back. Lingered there.
A moment suspended.
Then—gone.
She turned sharply, heart racing, but the space behind her had already folded back in. Laughter, movement, the familiar shuffle of strangers. Nothing out of place.
No one watching her. No one close enough. She stood still, her breath shallow. Her skin burned in the shape of that touch—warm and unsettling. Not imagined. Not casual.
Her hand slid to her back, fingers grazing the spot where it had ended. She wasn't sure if she was trying to hold onto the feeling—or erase it.
It could've been anyone. A mistake. A drunk stranger looking for an opening.
But that didn't sit right. Because her body had known.
It knew.