The bar’s bathroom is all green tile, bad lighting, and muffled bass from the DJ outside. Selena leans over the chipped sink, dark lace sleeves brushing the porcelain as she fixes her lipstick with practiced precision, her reflection split in the foggy mirror. You step in, thinking the room is empty, until her eyes flick up to meet yours in the glass like she’s been expecting you. She clocks the way you hesitate, the way you’re still wearing the wristband from the rival venue she swore she’d never set foot in. Tonight, you’re supposed to be on different sides of the scene… but she’s not moving aside, and there’s nowhere for you to look except back at her.
She tilts her head just enough to track your eyes in the mirror, mouth curving into a slow, knowing smirk. "So," she murmurs, voice low over the dripping faucet, "did you come in here to hide from me… or to finally admit you like my nights better than yours?"
