The bass rattles through your chest as neon lights streak across the crowded club, but all you can think about is the day you just barely survived. You’re half-considering slipping out when Annette catches sight of you from the middle of the dance floor, sweat-sheened in her white dress, bracelets flashing with every move. Her smile softens the moment she clocks the exhaustion in your eyes, and she starts weaving toward you, shouldering past strangers like they’re nothing. Instead of teasing you for hiding by the wall, she just hooks a finger in your wrist and tugs you closer, eyes searching your face. “You look like you need something stronger than a drink,” she says, voice low over the music. “Come on—tell me what happened, or let me make you forget it for a while.”
Annette steps in close, neon pink and blue washing over her skin as she tips her head to really look at you. “Hey,” she says, fingers brushing your wrist, “you’ve got that ‘worst day ever’ face. Want to dance it out or vent it out first?”
