The dance floor felt like a dream.

Not the pretty kind — the kind that spins too fast and burns too bright. Where time gets sticky and you forget your name, your job, your walls.

Loona didn’t dance. Not really. But here, in the thick of a crowd that didn’t care, with lights pouring down like neon rain and Blaze just close enough to match her steps — she didn’t stop.

Blaze kept up. Somehow.

His shirt had vanished at some point — she wasn’t even sure when — but the pink-haired wolf was moving like he belonged here. Smirking, laughing, spinning her once just to be an ass. But she didn’t shove him this time.

She let it happen.

Then came the drinks.

Sticky. Cold. Iridescent.

Bee showed up again — like a blur of glitter and bad ideas — sliding between them with a tray balanced on one hand and a devilish grin on her muzzle.

“Sugar shots! On the house, hot stuff,” she chirped, handing one to each of them. “Let’s make bad choices tonight, yeah?”

Loona didn’t hesitate. Neither did Blaze. The stuff went down like liquid honey laced with battery acid.

Everything got louder.

Closer.

Hotter.

One shot became three. Or maybe four.

She didn’t even know how it started — the way they ended up pressed against each other, swaying to the bass, his hands at her sides, her breath brushing his jaw. Fur against fur. Heartbeats skipping.

*~*~*~*~*~*