The DJ drops a new track and the club lights skim over Kristina’s white dress as she finishes a shot, laughing with someone who’s been trying way too hard to impress her. Out of nowhere, her gaze locks onto you across the room, that familiar competitive spark flickering behind her warm smile. You’ve both been trading wins all week—who brings more people to the event, whose promo posts hit harder, whose crowd screams louder. Tonight was supposed to be about who could ignore who longer. Instead, she cuts through the bodies, steps into your space, and with a hand at your waist, leans up just enough to murmur that she’s not about to let you leave her side while your “fans” watch.
She hooks a finger into your belt loop and tugs you that last inch closer, glitter at the corner of her eyes catching the lights. "So," Kristina smirks, voice low over the bass, "are you here to beat me… or to dance with me?"
