Jonah

The music is deafening, the kind that vibrates through your skull and settles somewhere in your chest, almost drowning out my thoughts. Almost. I make my way through the crowded club, scanning the costumed faces half-lit by neon lights. It’s one of those overly extravagant bachelorette parties, the kind that Sophia probably thinks says “fun and classy” but really just screams “money.”

I shouldn’t be here. This whole wedding, this night—it all feels wrong. But my father’s insistent that I support him, even if I disagree with everything about this marriage. And maybe I’d say it out loud if he actually cared to hear my thoughts. But that ship sailed long ago.

I lean against the bar, watching the crowd. If I hadn’t been preoccupied with how utterly ridiculous this all seems, I’d have noticed her sooner. A girl leaning on the bar, a drink in hand, looking like she’s as ready to leave as I am. Her costume is… unexpected. She’s dressed as if she fell out of another era, some vintage glamour that doesn’t quite fit in with the sequins and superhero costumes around her.

It’s hard to explain, but something about her makes me pause. She looks lost. Like she’s trying to stay grounded while everything around her spins. And for reasons I can’t explain, I find myself moving toward her.

She’s tipsy—clearly—but there’s a defiance in her gaze when she meets my eyes. “What’s your costume supposed to be?” I ask, attempting a grin.

She smirks. “The girl who drank too much,” she says, her voice dry, sarcastic. “Not that you can tell, right?”

She’s barely standing, and I reach out without thinking, steadying her before she sways too far. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get you some fresh air.” I don’t wait for a response, slipping an arm around her waist, feeling her lean into me as we head toward the hallway.

Her breathing slows as we enter a quieter room away from the chaos. She drops onto the bed, letting out a sigh, her eyes slipping shut. She’s completely out, so vulnerable and unguarded, and I just stand there for a moment, not sure what to do. It’s surreal—a stranger in my father’s hotel, lying in a suite that bears my mother’s name, a place I’ve seen a thousand times but never like this.

And something clicks. I don’t know if it’s the reckless energy of the night or if it’s the look in her eyes, but I make a choice I never make. I settle down beside her, letting the night melt away in this moment. For a few hours, I let myself be someone else.

The light is too bright when I crack my eyes open, a pale line spilling in from a crack in the curtain. My head throbs, but it’s manageable. Blinking, I take in the bare hotel ceiling, the mussed-up sheets, and… the girl.

She’s just a shape next to me at first, a blur of wild hair and bare shoulders. But then I remember her—bits and pieces—flashes of last night. Her eyes under that mask, the way she wobbled on her feet, how she muttered something about this being her mom’s bachelorette party, of all things. I grin at that memory, but the grin fades when I realize she’s not lying down. She’s crouched by the foot of the bed, one heel in hand and the other dangling from her fingers, like she’s trying to escape unnoticed.

My voice comes out rough, still scratchy from last night. “Leaving already?”

She freezes, her head snapping up. For a second, she looks like a deer in headlights, her big eyes darting between me and the door. “I… I need to go,” she stammers, her voice laced with something uneasy, like she’s talking herself through it.

I push myself up, rubbing a hand over my face as I shake off the last of the fog. “Need to go?” I repeat, half a smirk forming. “Look, you don’t have to do the whole awkward sneak-out. I’m not exactly the sentimental type.”

She doesn’t laugh. If anything, her expression tightens, her gaze hardening into something cold and distant. “This was a mistake,” she mutters, her tone dripping with resentment.

My smirk fades, and I sit up straighter. “Mistake?” I ask, confused, and maybe a bit annoyed. “You seemed pretty into it last night.”

Her mouth twists, and she clutches her shoes tighter, like she’s gearing up to launch them at me. “Are you kidding me?” She snaps, the heat in her voice surprising me. “You took advantage of me! I didn’t even know what was happening—I was drunk!”

The accusation lands with a thud. I feel my jaw clench, frustration boiling up. “Whoa, hold on a second,” I say, lifting my hands in surrender. “I didn’t take advantage of anyone. You were the one who came up to me. I was trying to help you.”

Her expression is a mix of anger and disgust, like she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Help me?” she scoffs. “Right. Because taking me back to your hotel room was the chivalrous thing to do.”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Look, I don’t know what twisted version of last night you’ve got in your head, but I didn’t force anything. If you don’t remember, that’s not my fault.”

Her eyes flash, and I catch a hint of something vulnerable beneath all that anger, but she pushes it down, straightening up and gripping the doorknob. “I’m leaving,” she says, her voice trembling, though it’s clear she’s trying to keep it steady. “Not because of what happened, but because I can’t stand you.”

That stings more than it should, and I can’t even explain why. I watch her, wondering if I’m supposed to recognize her or know something she’s not telling me. But she doesn’t give me a chance to respond. She’s already out the door, leaving me alone in a half-empty hotel room, feeling like I’ve been sucker-punched.

The silence that follows is sharp and heavy, and I sit there, trying to piece together what the hell just happened. Part of me wants to chase after her, demand to know what she really meant. But the other part—the smarter part—decides to let her go.