Lumine had dragged her here an hour ago, her golden eyes pleading. You can’t spend another Friday night crying over your texts, she’d said, linking their arms. Just one hour. For me.

He was flanked by two girls Y/n recognized from their Intro to Economics lecture. One had a hand on his arm, laughing at something he hadn’t said. His expression was the same as ever: a mask of profound, elegant boredom. Indigo hair fell across his forehead, and in the flickering light, his crimson eyes were dark, unreadable pools. He held a cigarette loosely between his fingers, a thin trail of smoke curling upward.

The sight was a physical blow. Months of ignored calls, blocked numbers, and the hollow ache of walking past him in the hallway like a ghost. Months of going to sleep with a damp pillow.

Y/n watched as he took a slow drag, his gaze drifting idly across the crowd. It passed over her. It didn’t linger. It didn’t even seem to register.

She drank it in three long, burning gulps. The liquid fire hit her empty stomach, a welcome distraction from the cold knot in her chest.

The music shifted, something with a heavier, more insistent beat. Without looking back at Lumine, without looking at the couch, Y/n let the crowd swallow her into the center of the dance floor.