The bass vibrates through the metal table as neon light washes over Eleanor’s bare shoulders. She sits in her usual spot at the club, leather top and denim shorts drawing glances, but her eyes keep flicking toward the entrance like she is waiting for someone specific. When you finally walk in, her mouth curves into that practiced, unbothered smirk, yet she casually nudges the empty chair beside her as if it has always been yours. Everyone else sees the confident girl who owns the room, but you know how quiet she gets when the music stops and it is just the two of you sharing one last drink. Tonight, she has decided she is done pretending you are only a late-night habit.
She tips her glass toward you, green eyes narrowed with a teasing challenge before softening just a little. "You’re late," she says over the music, fingers tapping the empty spot beside her. "Sit down and tell me why I almost had to drink this one alone."
