Inaya

A loud breath escapes me. Colourful lights pulsate around me, the red, green, and blue blurring into each other. They flicker, as if in mockery of my decision to show up here. The music blares from speakers, echoing throughout the overly crowded club. Bodies brush against each other out on the dance floor, trying to touch every inch of the other's skin, and I cringe inwardly before tearing my gaze from them. My eyes follow a mass of people hurrying around the bar, gulping down drinks one after another.

I hesitate to move from where I'm standing, and doubt clouds my mind. I stare at the crowd, feeling stranger by the minute. The lights feel like sharp lasers on my eyes, the music picking at my ears like it's trying to claw its way into my skull. The crowd around me starts to feel suffocating, and I'm rethinking my decision to accept Adi's invitation.

But it's Aditya. The one person I've never known how to walk away from. Nothing ever seemed to stop me when it was Adi. Even if his name itself is enough to send a violent shudder through me. My heart comes to a staggering stop whenever syllables of his name are echoed anywhere near me.

And the minute Kyra had told me she wanted to meet up about Adi, I'd abandoned everything I was doing and driven to go meet her. She was hesitant about telling me what had happened, and when she gave in, it was vague. Only mentioning that Aditya had asked her to pass along an invite to me. She left after handing me the little red envelope with a rose wax stamp on its back. And my heart burned at the symbolism of it.

I was reluctant to come. I wasn't ready. But it's difficult to keep my distance from him. I wasn't strong enough to prove his pull, and I doubt I ever will be.

But now, this creeping unease clawing at my chest is starting to wedge itself between me and the intention to find the reason Aditya called me here in the first place.

I take a step back, my mind screaming at me to turn around and leave. This, of all places, was the last place I ever imagined myself being. The kind of place I'd avoid in every possible scenario. Another step back. Away from the pulsing music. Away from the blinding lights. Everything feels too loud, too bright, too wrong. My thoughts are blaring now—go, just go—so I spin around, ready to escape.

And crash straight into a hard chest.

I let out a small yelp before looking up to see the person I dumped into, and my heart seized. My eyes clash with a beautiful pair of eyes, ones that I see in my dreams often. They were the quiet in-between of dusk and dawn, like the colour of stormy wood. Neither fully brown nor entirely grey, but something softer, sadder, and harder to forget. The grey brushed iris with a hint of warmth, like ash left glowing under embers.

I let my gaze wander from the haunting pull of his eyes to the sharp lines of his face.

And then he smirked.

Just like that, the moment shattered. Whatever soft ache his eyes held was gone, replaced by the irritating, all-too-familiar curve of arrogance on his lips.

"I was starting to doubt Kyra's ability to convince. But looks like you showed up anyway, little rose." His voice drips with smugness, and I've the very urge to strip him of it.

"I was just leaving, it was a bad decision to ever accept your invite," I say, keeping myself surprisingly steady.

I start to move away from him, desperate to escape the intoxicating pull of his presence—the sweet, maddening fragrance clinging to him like a second skin. But before I can put any real distance between us, he steps into my path, cutting me off effortlessly.

His hand finds my waist, fingers curling just enough to send a jolt of heat down my spine. I open my mouth to protest, but he doesn't give me the chance. With quiet insistence, he steers me away, guiding us from the very front of the entrance to a shadowed corner off to the side, out of sight.

"You're here now, might as well stay for a bit? It would be pointless to show and then leave without enjoying yourself." He bargains, his hand still tight around my waist.

"I don't find this place entertaining, Aditya. The sole reason I'm here is to know why you're threatening people to get to me," I stare at him, a hint of anger rising in my veins. "You could've reached out to me yourself. Why did you have to drag Kyra into all this mess?" I ask, softness lacing my words as I take Kyra's name.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, the sound low and raw, before pushing me gently against the cool wall of the club. His movements are controlled, deliberate. His other hand comes up to cradle the side of my nape, his fingers splayed just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

His voice is low, almost rough with restraint, "Tell me, Inaya, had I reached out to you, had I shown up. Would you hear me out ?" He leans in, just enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek, "No. Because you keep running away like I'm the mistake, when we both know that's not the truth."

My heart tightens at his words, and I press my hand against his chest, pushing him away from me slightly. He moves, but his presence still falls over mine like a dark shadow as he waits for me to answer. My gaze strays from his, following the line of his cheekbone, to his sharp nose and then the softness of his lips.

I inhale sharply as the memory of his lips against mine—tracing every inch of my skin with aching tenderness—floods my mind without warning. My gaze doesn't falter from where it's locked on his, and before I even realise it, I'm moving closer. Drawn in. My fingers curl softly around the fabric of his black shirt, grounding myself in the one thing that feels maddeningly familiar.

He notices, and his body eases, the tension in his shoulders slipping away. The grip on my waist gentles, fingers no longer possessive but reverent. Then, slowly, his other hand leaves my nape, moving with unspoken care to brush a stray lock of hair from my face

His touch is featherlight, almost reverent, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. The way his fingers graze my skin only makes the ache worse. My eyes stay down to his lips without permission, and suddenly, all I can think about is how they used to feel.

Warm. Certain. Addictive.

I wonder if they'd still taste like quiet apologies and the chaos he never said out loud. If they'd still fit against mine like they were meant to be there. The thought makes my heart stutter in my chest.

And I hate how much I want to find out.

Before the yearning can drag me under completely, I blink hard and take a step back, the warmth of his touch lingering on my skin like a ghost. His hand falls from my waist, and I let go of his shirt, the fabric slipping through my fingers like something I was never meant to hold onto for long.

I don't meet his eyes this time. I can't.

"Whatever is between us, it doesn't need anyone else's attention, don't drag my friends in this again," I say, my voice low.

I slip out from between him and the wall, his scent clinging to me for just a breath longer before it's swallowed by the sharp mix of sweat, cheap cologne, and spilt liquor. The crowd presses in again, heat and sound pulsing around me like a second heartbeat. I push through the mush of bodies, eyes scanning for a corner, a breath, a way out. All I need is a minute.

Then I spot the bar across the room. Dimly lit, less suffocating than the rest of this place, and quiet. I head toward it, determined, shouldering past the chaos around me. But just as I reach the edge of the crowd, my steps falter.

He's already there.

Leaning against the bar, casually dangerous in the way only he could be. One arm draped along the counter, the other holding a drink he hasn't touched. His gaze finds mine instantly, like he's been watching me the entire time I was threading my way toward him.

He slowly lifts the glasses to his lips, and an infuriating smirk forms on his face as he takes a sip of the liquor.

Asshole.

I stay there for a moment, at the edge of the crowd and stare at him. His sole purpose of inviting me this evening is clearly to make me lose my cool. Cornering me, stealing the only quiet place in the entire club because he knew.

He knew I'd rather suffocate in this crowd than go sit next to him after what just happened.

I drag in a breath that feels heavier than it should and look around. Strobe lights flicker in electric blues and reds, dancing over the crowd like a heartbeat skipping out of rhythm. The floor is a blur of movement—bodies pressed together, hands raised, laughter tangled in bass. People living.

I take a step toward them. Then another.

If he can play games, so can I.

And with every inch I move closer, I imagine it, what it would feel like to just let go. To lose myself in the sound, in the distraction. To dance like I didn't just almost fall apart in his arms. By the time I reach the centre of the dance floor, I've almost convinced myself I can do it.

Almost.

But then I stop.

The people around me are moving, swaying, losing themselves to the music. But I'm not. I'm just... standing there. Still. Upright. Unmoving.

The bass vibrates through my bones, but nothing inside me responds. My arms hang at my sides like I've forgotten how to exist in my own body. My feet feel like they belong to someone else. All around me, bodies sway to the rhythm of the bass, grinding, spinning, letting loose. The lights strobe and flicker, painting everyone in flashes of colour.

It's strange, really. I'm surrounded, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, with strangers who couldn't care less that I'm falling apart quietly in the centre of them. My arms hang limp by my sides, my fingers twitch slightly like they want to move, but I don't let them.

There's no breath left in me to fake joy. No rhythm in my body that doesn't echo the storm I've been trying so hard to hide.

The music changes slightly.

Until it happens.

The opening notes drift through the air, slow and familiar. A melody so burned into my memory that even a single second of it makes my spine go rigid.

No. My head lifts. My breath catches.

That song.

Our song.

A low, rich beat starts to build beneath the soft guitar, wrapping around my ribs like a hand I haven't felt in ages. The first time I heard it was in his car, his hand had found mine mid-verse, shy at first, then certain. And I remember thinking how impossibly safe it felt.

Then again, weeks later, in my room, barefoot, laughing, dancing in oversized shirts, tripping over each other. He pulled me close, hummed the lyrics into my hair, pressed his lips to my temple and called me his forever, and God, I believed him.

And now?

Now it plays in a club packed with people who have no idea what it meant to two people who stopped being us. The lyrics spill into the air like old ghosts. Every word a wound I thought had long since scarred over.

My heart lurches. Then it speeds up.

Because no matter how much I've tried to forget—how much I've wanted to forget, my body remembers. My soul remembers. My eyes sting, and suddenly, I don't feel brave anymore. I feel exposed.

And somehow, I swear I can still feel his eyes on me.

The crowd around me continues to move in slow waves, but I'm adrift in my own stillness... until I feel that familiar pull. That heat on my back.

He doesn't say a word at first. Just steps in behind me, close enough that his chest nearly brushes my back, his presence filling every space I didn't know I'd left open. The scent of him, dark musk, a trace of bourbon, and something so deeply his it unravels me on instinct, hits me before his voice does.

And then, softly, in a low, coaxing tone, he murmurs, "Dance with me."

A whisper against my skin.
A memory turned into a demand.

My body doesn't argue; it never really learned how to, when it comes to him. But my mind does. It screams beneath the stillness, beneath the way my limbs melt so easily into his.

Don't. Not again. You know how this ends.

It throws reason at me like armour I should be wearing, not shedding.

But his hands move so gently—one brushing my hip, the other grazing the side of my arm before slipping down to my waist. Fingers splay across the fabric of my dress like he's relearning me through touch. His touch is light, reverent, but the heat behind it burns through the space between us.

Each of his caresses drowns out another warning in my head, until I can barely hear them at all.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding—soft, shaky, maybe a little traitorous—and lean back against him, letting my head fall to his shoulder. The moment my cheek rests near the line of his jaw, his grip tightens just enough, like he's afraid I might disappear again. I turn slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. His gaze crashes into mine, and for a moment, we don't move. Don't breathe.

His thumb draws a lazy circle at my waist. My fingers graze his. The air between us pulses with want and history, and what the hell are we doing?

And then, slowly, he turns me to face him. His hand slides from my waist, fingers brushing the edge of my spine as they trail upward, ghosting over the curve of my back until his palm rests between my shoulder blades. There's a pause there before he guides me gently, turning me in his hold as though I belong nowhere else but in this moment, with him.

Our bodies shift, his steps barely audible over the low hum of the music, and before I can catch my breath, I'm facing him, eyes inches from his, heart beating far too loud to be ignored. His other hand rises with a slow, reverent grace, grazing the side of my throat, up along the curve of my jaw until his fingers settle just beneath it.

He holds my neck firm, certain, and possessive in a way that isn't rough but feels like a silent claim. Like he's reminding me—I've been here before. You've let me hold you like this before. My breath catches as the pad of his thumb grazes the skin just beneath my ear, the warmth of it sinking deep.

And all the while, his gaze stays locked on mine.

His eyes are darker now, smouldering with something unspoken. They flicker once to my mouth, and then back again, settling on me like I'm both the question and the answer to something he's been aching for. He just holds me there, steady and undone, like he's daring me to close the distance. Or run.

But a sudden shove from behind knocks the air from my lungs, pushing me even closer to Adi. In an instant, the fragile moment between us shatters, splintering into silence.

The contact is rough, jarring. A man, clearly drunk, stumbles into me, his body brushing far too close, far too deliberately. His hand lands on the small of my back, hot and heavy through the thin fabric of my dress. His touch isn't curious or accidental; it's presumptuous, possessive. Like I'm something to lean on. Something to take.

Every inch of me stiffens.
The music fades. The lights blur.
I can't breathe.

A cold unease coils around my spine, shoving me straight out of the haze I'd let myself fall into. My arms go rigid at my sides, shoulders pulled tight like strings wound too sharply. I don't turn to look. I don't move. I don't even blink. Just a single, stark thought echoes in my mind—get him off me.

In front of me, Adi stills.
Completely.

His eyes, which had just softened for me, darken in an instant. The air between us thickens with tension. I feel his arms tighten slightly, just enough to steady me, just enough to let me know he felt it too.

He glances over my shoulder.

The shift in his expression is terrifyingly calm. Cold. Calculated. His jaw clenches as he takes in the man who just brushed against me. One sharp look, and he slips in front of me like a storm restrained by skin, every muscle in his body wound tight and ready to snap. He steps forward once, then again, smoothly pulling me behind him with one arm like a shield of instinct, muscle, and rage.

The man, too drunk to register the storm he's just summoned, laughs as if the violation were a joke. As if I were just another girl in a crowded room. But Adi doesn't laugh. He steps forward once. Then again. And with no warning, his fist flies. The crack of bone on bone is sickening.

It lands square across the guy's jaw, snapping his head to the side with brutal force. Blood spills from his mouth immediately, his bottom lip splitting open like paper against the weight of the blow. There's a stunned silence, a collective inhale from the crowd, but Adi doesn't pause.

Not when it comes to me.

He grabs the man by the collar, dragging him upright before slamming him back against the nearest wall with enough force to rattle the framed photo beside them.

"You think touching her's a joke?" Aditya growls, voice low, dangerous.

The guy tries to laugh again, wheezing through his busted lip, but Adi's knee slams into his gut before he gets the chance. The sound he makes isn't laughter anymore. It's agony.

The room has frozen around them. Music still plays, but it feels miles away. My fingers tremble at my sides as I watch Adi, his back to me, his rage a wildfire I can almost feel on my skin.

"Touch her again, I swear to f—" Another punch. A deep thud against skin and bone.

"Adi, stop," I whisper, voice barely audible.

He doesn't hear me. Or maybe he does and doesn't care.

He hauls the man up by the collar and drives his knuckles into his face again. Blood splashes across the floor. His breathing is ragged, his jaw clenched so tightly I can almost hear his teeth grinding. There's something unrecognisable in him, something darker, more violent.

"Aditya, please!" I say louder now, stepping forward, trembling.

But his fists keep moving.
A blow to the ribs.
Another to the face.

He's blind. Lost.

His rage is louder than my voice.

Until I break.

"Adi, STOP!"

The word tears from my throat like a sob, and it slices through the chaos like a blade. My eyes sting. My hands shake. My voice echoes, cracking in the air between us.

Aditya freezes.

His hand, raised mid-air for another punch, stays suspended for a moment too long. His chest rises and falls like a wave breaking against the shore. The man at his feet groans, barely conscious, blood smeared across his cheek like war paint.

Then, slowly—like a storm retreating after tearing through everything in its path—he lowers his arm.

His eyes turn to me.

They are still wild, rimmed with something unrelenting, like he hasn't fully come back from wherever his rage had taken him. Blood streaked his hand, smeared across his fingers and wrist, the proof of what he'd done painted raw across his skin.

The change in him was instant.

His jaw slackened, the sharp lines of rage softening into something else—remorse, disbelief, maybe even shame. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my hands, the way they trembled at my sides, and then back up like he couldn't believe what he'd just made me witness.

"Inaya..." he breathed, but the word barely made it out.

All that fire, all that violence—it leaked out of him like water through a cracked dam, leaving behind a boy who just looked so lost. So afraid that he'd just lost me before even trying to get me back.

I stare at him, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

There was blood on his knuckles. Someone else's. His chest still rose and fell like he was trying to outrun whatever had just taken over him. But it was the look in his eyes that hit me hardest, like he already knew he'd messed up. Like he hated himself for it more before I even could.

A pang bloomed in my chest. A sharp, heavy ache that I wasn't sure belonged to anger or heartbreak.

"Let's just go," I whispered, voice barely holding itself together.

Aditya blinks, as if the words took a second to reach him. Then he stumbles back a step, clumsily getting to his feet. He didn't say anything, not at first. Just looks down at the man groaning on the floor and then at his own shaking hands like he didn't recognise them.

But then he reaches for me.

His fingers find mine—tight, desperate—and he pulls me along without looking back. Past the music. Past the stares. Past the blood. His grip never loosens once, like letting go might mean losing more than just this night. Like he needed me tethered to him to stay grounded. And I let him.

On the way out, he snatches a first aid kit from behind the bar—his free hand moving with muscle memory, like he'd done this before. The bartender didn't question it, just exchanged a knowing glance and looked away.

He leads me to one of the VIP rooms tucked behind velvet curtains and frosted glass, far from the pulsing music and curious eyes. The door shuts with a soft thud, sealing us into a quiet that felt almost suffocating after the chaos outside.

Aditya drops the first aid kit onto the table, the contents rattling as it landed. But his eyes aren't on it. They are on me.

Fierce. Frantic. Unreadable.

He steps closer, slow but sure, like I might vanish if he moved too fast. My breath catches as he raises his injured hand, fingertips trembling just slightly. Blood was still fresh in the creases of his knuckles, but when he liftes my chin with the backs of his fingers, not a single drop stained my skin.

It was such a careful gesture, and yet it made something inside me burn.

His eyes search mine like they were begging me to say something, but I don't. I just stand there, throat dry, the silence between us stretched taut.

"Let go," I whisper, voice almost a breath.

But he doesn't.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words broken, raw.

He says it again. And again. Each repetition is softer.

"I'm sorry, Inaya. I just—I saw him touch you, and I—" Another shaky breath. "I lost it."

I blink hard, trying to push back the sting behind my eyes. It doesn't help. The apology is real, I know that. I feel it in the way his voice trembles, in how he won't stop looking at me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he blinks.

But it still doesn't fix what I feel. It doesn't undo the weight in my chest or the way my stomach twists.

"Let go," I say, a little too sharply, reaching up to push his hand away. I don't mean for it to come out so harsh. I just need space—just a breath to think. But my fingers knock against his torn knuckles, and the moment they connect, he flinches.

A sharp hiss escapes between his teeth, and I freeze.

"Shit," I breathe, guilt flashing through me. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," he cuts in quickly. His voice is low, rough, like gravel in his throat. He shakes his head, swallowing the pain like it's a habit. "It's nothing."

But it's not nothing. Not to me.

Not when he won't meet my eyes now. Not when his shoulders tense like he's trying to hold everything in like if he lets one piece slip, he'll fall apart completely.

I hesitate for a second before reaching out and gently taking his hand in mine. His knuckles are torn open, dried blood clinging to the edges of the split skin, and fresh bruises blooming underneath. The sight makes something twist in my chest. I barely trace a thumb along the injury before he pulls his hand back.

"I'm fine, leave it," he mutters, looking away.

He always does that. Pretends it doesn't hurt. Pretends he doesn't.

I look at him. His jaw's tight, eyes dimmed with something heavier than anger now. I reach out again, slowly, and wrap my fingers around his hand before he can stop me.

"You push me away at the wrong time," I say softly, not blinking, "and then try to pull me to you when I don't want to be..."

He doesn't respond. Doesn't argue. Doesn't move. His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to say something. But no sound comes out. He closes it again, jaw clenching like he's biting back words he doesn't know how to form. So I hold his hand a little tighter and lead him to the edge of the sofa.

"Sit," I whisper, more like an exhale than a command. He does.

I stand beside him, settling the kit on the table. My fingers search through it, brushing over bandages and antiseptic, clumsy in their urgency. He doesn't say anything, just watches me quietly, like he's waiting for me to change my mind.

I don't.

The silence presses between us as I finally take his hand again. I clean the cut gently, slower this time, trying not to hurt him. I'm careful not to meet his eyes, I don't think I'd be able to hold my expression steady if I did.

"I'm fine," he mutters again, trying to take his hand away from me.

I shoot him a look, one sharp enough to cut. "Yeah, clearly. Bleeding counts as fine now?"

He doesn't reply, just flexes his fingers like that'll prove a point. I hold his hand firmly. He doesn't resist this time.

"You always do this," I say, focusing on the wound. "Push me away when I'm trying... and then reach for me when I don't want to be touched."

He blinks. But I don't stop.

I press the cotton against his skin a little too roughly, maybe on purpose. He winces.

"You don't want to be touched?" he asks, voice lower now. Quieter.

I glance up. "Not by someone who keeps confusing love with convenience."

That stings him. I see it.

I remain standing beside him, wrapping gauze around his hand. My touch is firm. Detached. Or maybe I'm pretending it is.

After a long pause, he speaks. "Did you mean it?"

I don't look at him. "Mean what?"

"That you don't want to be touched by me."

The bandage stills in my fingers. I look up. His eyes are darker than usual—tired or haunted, I can't tell.

"That I meant," I say, though my voice barely carries the weight of conviction it should.

And then, just like that, he tugs me closer, suddenly pulling me into his lap.

My breath catches, a sharp, startled inhale I can't swallow in time. His arms wrap around me without urgency, without force. Just... there. Like they remember where I used to fit.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, voice thinner than I want it to be.

"I just wanted to see if you still meant it," he murmurs, the heat of him seeping into my skin, into all the places I'd tried to keep cold.

My hands push against his chest. "Let go."

But he doesn't. He stares at me like I'm the end of something and the beginning of something else entirely.

"You hate me, right?" he says, a faint bitterness curling around his words. "So what are you doing here, Inaya? In this room? Alone with me?"

I hesitate. My eyes fall to the bandaged hand, to the blood on my fingertips that isn't even mine.

"I'm fixing your hand," I reply hesitantly, as if that was a good enough response.

He tilts his head, a half-smile ghosting his lips. "Just the hand?"

I don't answer.

And for a while, neither does he.

Silence settles like dusk between us. Our eyes lock, and neither of us dares to look away. There's something dangerous about eye contact with someone who's tasted your softness. They know exactly where your cracks begin.

I shift, suddenly aware of the shape of him beneath me. The closeness.

"Let me go, Adi," I whisper, voice catching like a loose thread. I press my hands to his shoulders, trying to move.

But his arms tighten just enough to keep me there. Not forceful but deliberate.

"No," he says quietly. "If you're so determined to fix my hand..." His gaze flickers to the discarded roll of gauze still clenched in my fist. "...you can do it from my lap."

I blink, stunned. "You're insane."

He shrugs, a slow curl of amusement at the edge of his mouth. "Probably."

I hesitate again, caught somewhere between fury and the ache I haven't yet named.

"You're ridiculous," I murmur, even as I make no real effort to get off his lap.

He doesn't respond, only watches me the way he always does, intently. My fingers twitch. I glance down at the wound, still open, still waiting. It should be simple, wrapping this up and walking away. But nothing ever stays simple with him.

"I shouldn't be doing this," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Then don't," he murmurs. "Walk out, if that'll make it easier."

He says it so casually, it almost hurts. Like he knows I won't. Lik,e he knows exactly how close I am to giving in.

And I hate that he's right.

I sigh and settle back, barely shifting in his lap as I unwrap the gauze. My fingers graze his knuckles as I work, and for a moment, the room shrinks down to nothing but us. He doesn't look away. Neither do I. When I'm finally done, I brush the last bit of wrap into place and rest his hand gently on his thigh. My own lingers a moment too long.

I'm the one who breaks the quiet. "Why did you want to see me tonight?"

There's a pause, like he's searching for the right words in a language that only existed when we loved each other.

He leans back slightly, eyes flickering over my face like he's memorising it for the last time. "Because," he says, voice low and unsteady, "there are nights when I still see your name on the inside of my eyelids. Nights when I think I could forget you... And then I don't. And these days, nights feel like I have to see you before I go mad and rip this world apart. Rip it into pieces like it did us.

The air stills.

Something inside me cracks, but I keep it buried beneath every sharp edge I've built since him. I don't speak. Just look at him like I've forgotten how to hate him for the right reasons. Like I almost remember how it felt to love him for the wrong ones.

I shift first.

One hand presses against his chest, not to push him, just to steady myself as I move. My knee slips down the side of his thigh, grazing warm fabric and the memory of old closeness. His breath stirs at my temple, but his hands don't move, even as I ease myself off his lap.

He lets me go.

"I should go," I say again, quieter this time. But firmer. Final.

He doesn't argue.

I take a step toward the door, then another, the silence following me like a shadow. And just before I reach the handle, I stop for a moment. Not to turn around. Not to say something more.

Just to admit something to myself, something which makes me hate this situation more than anything else.

I felt safer in his lap than I did in the whole damn club.

And then I walk out. Without looking back.