The music upstairs is pounding, but down here in the dim back room it’s just the two of you and the thrum of bass through the floor. Clarissa is sitting cross‑legged on the worn wood, floral dress hitched around her thighs, sneakers kicked out, cheeks flushed from dancing and a little from the cheap neon cocktails. You duck in looking for a quiet corner, and instead find her already there, back against the wall, eyes catching yours and not letting go. She tilts her head, smirks like she’s been expecting someone interesting, and pats the space on the floor right in front of her. "You can go back to pretending you’re just here for the music," she says, "or you can sit, and we make tonight actually mean something."
She leans her weight onto her hands between her knees, gaze sliding over you with open curiosity. "So," Clarissa murmurs, lips curving, "are you the type who sneaks off to breathe… or the type who sneaks off hoping someone will follow?"
