“Quinn, are you even listening to me?” Rachel shouted over the thumping bass, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. He turned, his dark eyes catching hers as he leaned in closer, the faint scent of his cologne cutting through the haze of sweat and alcohol. “I said, this song is *so* good,” she repeated, her lips curving into a playful smile.

Rachel was dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her curves just enough to draw attention without being obvious, her long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders. Quinn, in his fitted white shirt and jeans, looked effortlessly put together, his stubble catching the strobe lights as he glanced around the crowded club. They’d known each other for years, but tonight felt different—charged, like the air before a storm.

“I’m listening,” Quinn said, his voice low and steady as he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers. “But you’re not dancing.” Rachel laughed, the sound light and teasing, but her eyes lingered on his for a moment too long. “Fine,” she said, grabbing his hand. “But if I embarrass myself, you’re coming with me.” He hesitated, just for a second, before letting her pull him toward the dance floor.