I don't even see her coming—Julia just crashes into me like a rogue comet, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting with wild glee and too many drinks. Her hand loops around my wrist and she's dragging me before I can ask where we're going.
"You," she says with a lopsided grin, "owe me one dance, at least. I drank three glasses of tequila for this moment."
"What happened to wine?" I ask.
"Wine's for the beginning. Tequila's for the main character arc."
I laugh, letting her pull me toward the dance floor, or at least the area that has become one. There's no formal boundary—just an open space where bodies collide and sway under flashing lights. The rooftop is pulsing. Like a shared heartbeat, fevered and euphoric.
Somewhere nearby, McKay's behind the DJ booth now, sleeves rolled up and head bobbing as he crafts a wild mix. The beat drops hard—hard enough to shake something loose in my chest.
