= POV Chris =
Several Hours later
I pulled into the parking lot a street from the club, killing the engine and leaning back for a second to steady my nerves. Through the windshield, I spotted Amber already waiting under the flickering glow of a streetlight. She looked like she belonged there—leaning against her car, black leather pants hugging her legs, and a loose tank top that showed off toned arms.
It wasn't until she shifted, letting the light catch her skin, that I noticed the tattoo curling around her bicep. A sharp, jagged claw like it had been carved into her instead of inked.
Amber raised a cigarette to her lips, the ember flaring briefly before she exhaled, sending a trail of smoke curling into the night air. She saw me staring and smirked, all teeth and shadows.
I stepped out of the car, the borrowed leather jacket heavy on my shoulders. It smelled faintly of smoke and something darker, like old metal and rain-soaked asphalt. I pulled it tighter, shoving my hands into my pockets as I crossed the lot toward her.
Amber's eyes swept over me. "You cut it shorter." She grinned as she approved.
"If there's one thing she'll notice right away, it's this," I said, brushing a hand through the uneven strands of my hacked-up bob. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
Amber reached into her pocket and tossed something my way. I caught it instinctively, clutching a small box that fitted perfectly in my palm.
"Cigarettes?" I arched a brow.
"Props." She shrugged, her grin widening. "Make it count—or this might be the only thing you're bringing back tonight."
I popped the lid open. Two cigarettes and one lighter—a deliberate number. Amber wasn't one to waste anything, even regarding theatrics.
I slipped them into my jacket pocket, feeling the weight of the lighter like a reminder. Amber straightened, flicking the last cigarette into the gutter and grinding it out with the toe of her boot.
"Showtime," she said, and the word carried a sharp edge, like a knife catching the light.
I swallowed hard and followed her down the street.
The club loomed ahead, pulsing with music even from this distance. The neon lights above the entrance flickered red and blue, shifting shadows against the pavement. A line had already formed outside, with tight groups of people smoking, laughing, and pretending not to care whether they got.
Amber didn't slow down. She walked as if the night belonged to her, head high, her steps with the kind of confidence that made people step aside without even realizing why. I trailed after her, clutching my jacket and trying to channel even half of that energy. We reached the entrance, and I could already feel the bass vibrating under my skin. The bouncer barely glanced at Amber before stepping aside. She flicked her chin at me, and I followed, my heartbeat racing in time with the music.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and heat. Lights strobed over the crowd, flashes of red and white cutting through the haze. Bodies moved together, swaying and twisting, a blur of leather, sweat, and skin.
Amber leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear. "Remember—don't try too hard. You're supposed to be falling apart, not holding it together."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
This was it. No turning back.
The air inside the club was thick—perfume, sweat, and the faint, sticky sweetness of spilled drinks. Colored lights spun lazily overhead, painting the walls in shifting hues of red and blue, like we were swimming underwater. The bass thrummed beneath my feet, a slow, steady pulse that vibrated through the couch as I sat down, forcing myself to breathe.
Amber had already slipped out, leaving me alone—exactly as planned. But now, with the weight of it settling over me, the plan felt brittle, like it could shatter if I made the wrong move.
I scanned the crowd again, forcing myself to focus. At least Amber's earlier maneuvering had worked—the room wasn't packed, and most people who'd shown up were ordinary, unassuming. No one here looked like a threat. Good. That meant Sarah wouldn't have many reasons to keep her distance—assuming she even showed up.
The couch I'd claimed was perfect. Tucked into the far corner, it was washed in an unflattering spotlight that most people avoided. But from here, I could see everything—people entering, leaving, mingling. I'd spot her the second she stepped through the door.
The speakers crackled to life, making a few people flinch.
"Ladies, gentlemen, queers, and queens, welcome to the first-ever Queer Singles Night!"
The voice was bright and over-rehearsed, and the scattered cheer it earned barely filled the room. Thirty people, tops. Perfect.
"The rules are simple! Grab a placard, pick a question, and find someone interesting. If they answer, you've got five minutes to talk! When time's up, move on—or, if you're still talking, you're leaving together. No buts about it! Mingle, flirt, or get U-Hauled away. Let the night begin!"
The music returned, louder this time, and the crowd shifted. There was nervous laughter, clinking glasses, and rising voices as people reached for placards.
Amber's parting words buzzed as I pulled my phone from my pocket. Good luck. Right. I needed it.
I glanced at the screen. 6:30 PM. Too early, probably. But still, my thumb hovered over Sarah's contact, scrolling through the messages I'd sent—the ones that hadn't gone through. Each one is a loose thread, frayed and unresolved.
Would she come? Would she see me and walk over, just like I'd imagined? Or would she turn around and disappear, leaving me staring at the door, clutching my phone like some lovesick idiot?
The couch dipped suddenly, jolting me back to reality.
"So… what are your pronouns?"
I looked up to find a tall, lanky guy looming over me. He had sharp elbows and bad posture. He wore a faded band T-shirt and clutched a plastic cup in one hand. The other hand held a placard with an icebreaker question scrawled on it.
"Not Interested," I said, leaning back and draping my arm across the back of the couch.
His face fell, but he recovered quickly, forcing a crooked smile.
"Well,… if you wanna kill four minutes, you can ask me mine?"
I snorted, tilting my head. "What's yours, then?"
"Uh—he/him," he says, sipping whatever watered-down cocktail he is nursing.
I raised a brow. "Congrats."
He laughed nervously and rocked back on his heels. "So, uh—what's your deal? Looking for someone?"
I stared at him for too long, then let my gaze drift back to the entrance.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm waiting for someone."
His smile wavered, and he mumbled something about checking out the bar before walking off, leaving me alone again.
I let out a slow breath and sank deeper into the couch. My hands were still clammy, my heart thudding faster than the music.
Any minute now.
I just had to wait.
+++
An hour dragged by, each minute stretching thin, brittle with nerves. People came and lingered, flitting from conversation to conversation, their voices blending into the low hum of the club. I played along, answering questions and throwing out half-hearted quips, but I never let the timer run out. Four minutes—then I shut it down.
I wasn't here for them.
My eyes kept darting back to the entrance, scanning the crowd, waiting for her. A brunette. Heels. The image burned in my mind until I wasn't sure if I'd recognize her or if my memory had warped her into someone else entirely.
I was just starting to think that maybe she'd changed her mind, or perhaps she wasn't coming—when I saw it.
A flash of curls.
I froze mid-sentence, cutting off some redhead who'd been talking about her tattoo and turned sharply, heart thundering against my ribs.
And there she was.
Sarah.
She stepped down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the metal railing, and the world slowed.
Her hair—those dark curls I used to wrap around my fingers—framed her face in soft waves, catching the light like polished silk. She wore a short black dress that clung in all the right places and a spiked handbag that gleamed as sharply as the look in her eyes. Her heels clicked against the steps, measured and deliberate, and my breath hitched.
She was beautiful.
Painfully, devastatingly beautiful.
And I—God, I felt hungry. Starved.
I wanted to move, cut through the crowd, and take her in my arms, bury my face in her neck,k and breathe her in, whisper apologies I didn't mean and promises I couldn't keep.
Never leave me. Never look at another.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
I stayed rooted to the couch, fingers digging into the leather armrest as my pulse hammered in my ears. I forced myself, mainstay still, to wait.
She had to come to me.
That was the plan.
She had to cross the room, had to see me sitting there looking broken and battered and just pathetic enough to pull at her heartstrings.
This had to work.
I swallowed, throat tight, and leaned back, forcing an air of indifference even as my veins thrummed with desperation.
Don't fuck this up, Chris.
Not now.
🌙✨ Step Beyond the Page ✨🌙
Some doors only open if you knock with your heart.
For $5 a month, you can wander into my world — a place where sapphic glances linger like dusk light, boy love burns slow and certain, and the pages are always warm from being read too often.
Choose your path:
🌸 Sapphic Only: For those who want soft hands, fierce hearts, and love that blooms between women.
🌊 Boy Love Only: For those who crave quiet devotion and longing threaded through every glance.
🌈 All of the Above: For the unapologetically bi, the endlessly curious, the ones who just want more.
With your support, you'll receive:
📜 Early access to stories before they touch the world
💖 Bonus tales you won't find anywhere else
Every pledge is a candle lit in my writing room, keeping these stories alive and glowing.
If you've ever wanted to live inside a love story — this is your invitation.
Join here → https://www.patreon.com/c/NightKitten