THE NIGHT AFTER — NO RULES, NO REGRETS
JAY'S POV
The first drink burned.
The second settled.
By the third, something inside me unclenched.
I didn't get drunk easily. Never had. I knew my limits, knew how to keep control—how to stay sharp even when everyone else blurred.
But tonight wasn't about control.
Tonight was about release.
The music in the bar shifted—bass-heavy, unapologetic, vibrating through the floor and straight into my bones. The lights dimmed lower, strobes flashing in slow pulses of red and blue. The kind of lighting that made everyone look a little dangerous and a little anonymous.
Perfect.
I tipped my head back and finally finished the drink.
Then another.
The bartender raised an eyebrow.
I smiled at him. Slow. Intentional.
"Celebrating," I said.
He didn't ask what.
He just poured.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth drink, the world softened at the edges. Not spinning. Not sloppy. Just… lighter. Like gravity had loosened its grip on me.
The music swelled.
A beat dropped.
And suddenly, sitting still felt impossible.
I left the bar without thinking, slipping into the crowd on the dance floor. Bodies moved around me—sweat, perfume, heat, laughter. No one cared who I was here. No one knew my name.
That anonymity tasted better than alcohol.
I closed my eyes.
Let the rhythm take over.
I danced like nothing could touch me.
Like nothing mattered.
Like the past twenty-four hours hadn't ripped something open and replaced it with steel.
I laughed—loud, unfiltered—throwing my head back as the beat climbed.
My arms moved freely, my hips following instinct instead of thought.
I danced like it was the end of something.
Because it was.
Hands in the air. Head back. Laughter ripping out of my chest — loud, unrestrained, reckless.
Someone shouted beside me.
Someone spun.
Someone bumped into me and apologized.
I didn't care.
Another drink appeared in my hand.
I didn't ask where it came from.
I drank it anyway.
The music dropped harder.
And then—
Someone stepped in front of me.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark shirt.
A familiar stillness in the way he moved — like he wasn't trying to be seen.
He offered a hand.
I blinked at it, amused.
"You dance?" I shouted over the music.
He leaned in just enough for me to hear him.
"Enough."
I laughed — a real laugh, the kind that surprises even you.
"Dangerous answer," I said.
He shrugged. "So is yours."
I took his hand.
The floor pulsed beneath us.
We moved together — not close, not intimate. Just rhythm. Just motion. Just two people burning off something heavy in the dark.
He didn't touch my waist.
Didn't pull me in.
Didn't cross lines.
Just matched my pace, my steps, my chaos.
It felt… strange.
Comfortable.
I spun once, twice, hair whipping across my face. He caught my wrist gently — not stopping me, just steadying me.
"Easy," he said, voice low.
I squinted up at him, laughing.
"You sound like my brother."
His mouth twitched.
"God forbid."
Something tugged at the back of my mind.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
I leaned closer, peering at his face through the flashing lights.
"Do I know you?" I asked.
He hesitated.
Just a fraction.
"No," he said.
I accepted that instantly.
Because drunk-me was generous.
"Good," I grinned. "That means I can be irresponsible."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
We danced again.
Faster now.
Louder.
Sweat, light, music — everything blurred until there was nothing but movement and breath and release.
At some point, I shouted, "TO BAD PLANS!"
He raised his glass without missing a beat.
"To bad plans."
"To worse people!"
His jaw tightened.
"To worse people," he echoed anyway.
I didn't notice.
I was already laughing too hard.
---
THE MOMENT OF RECOGNITION
It happened slowly.
Cruelly.
Like the universe leaning in to whisper, oh, you didn't know?
We stumbled off the dance floor toward the bar, breathless. I leaned against the counter, head spinning just enough to feel light.
He stood beside me, close but not touching.
The bartender looked between us.
"You good?" he asked me.
"Fantastic," I replied.
Then he looked at the guy beside me.
"And you?"
"I'm fine," he said.
And it hit me.
The voice.
The cadence.
The calm that didn't belong in a place like this.
I turned.
Really looked this time.
The lights softened.
His face came into focus.
Brown eyes. Familiar mouth. That expression — quiet, observant, always two steps behind the loud ones.
David.
My stomach dropped.
"Oh," I said faintly.
He didn't pretend anymore.
Didn't smile.
Didn't dodge it.
"Hey, Jay."
The world tilted harder this time.
"You—" I blinked. "You're—"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."
I laughed.
Once.
Sharp.
Unsteady.
"Wow," I breathed. "Of course it's you."
"I didn't plan it," he said immediately. "I swear."
I waved a hand. "Relax. Apparently tonight is all about surprises."
Silence stretched between us — thick, uncomfortable, loaded.
"You heard, didn't you?" he asked softly.
I met his eyes.
Held them.
"I heard everything."
His jaw clenched.
"I didn't laugh," he said.
"I know."
"You left before—"
"I didn't need to stay."
He nodded slowly.
"I followed you," he admitted. "Not to spy. Just— I wanted to make sure you were okay."
I scoffed lightly. "And?"
"And you were dancing like the world owed you an apology."
I smiled at that.
"Did it?"
"No," he said. "But it looked scared."
We stood there, two people balancing truth and alcohol and things that couldn't be unsaid.
"I won't tell them," he said suddenly.
I raised a brow. "Tell them what?"
"That I saw you. That you heard. That tonight happened."
I studied him.
"You're still Section E."
"Yes."
"But you didn't laugh."
"No."
"And you danced with me without trying to touch me."
He shrugged. "Basic decency."
I tilted my head.
"Funny how rare that is."
His mouth twitched — sad, maybe.
"Be careful, Jay," he said. "Whatever you're planning… Keifer doesn't lose often."
I stepped closer.
Close enough that he could smell the alcohol on my breath.
"That's okay," I said calmly. "I'm not trying to make him lose."
I smiled.
"I'm letting him win."
David stared at me.
And for the first time that night —
Someone understood exactly how dangerous that was.