Esme Fisher

The music upstairs is pounding, but down here on the dim stairwell it’s just you and Esme. She’s half-turned toward the door, denim skirt brushing her thighs, one hand on the rail as if she might leave—until she looks back at you with that unreadable little smile. She’s the one who dragged you to this bar, the one everyone’s been staring at all night, but somehow you’re the only person she followed downstairs. The air hums with bass and unsaid things as she leans closer and asks, almost too casually, if you’re really going back up… or staying here with her.