The night wore on, and the atmosphere started to shift. As the crowd thinned and the music slowed down, I found myself caught in a strange, growing tension between Ethan and me, only I found myself looking for him in the crowds. Every time I tried to escape it, I couldn't. It was like he was always watching, always just a few steps away, and I wasn't sure what to make of it.
By the time midnight rolled around, I was exhausted. I wasn't sure I was having fun, but I was definitely feeling something—something I couldn't quite place. The night had been a mix of excitement, awkwardness, and a growing curiosity I hadn't expected.
At some point between shots and toilet trips, I'd spotted Mom and Dad slipping out. We said our goodbyes near the bar—quick hugs, warm smiles, and a few words of reassurance.
"The spare key's under the plant pot by the side door," Mom had said, squeezing my hand. "Taxi's booked. Just let Aliya know when you're ready."
"Have fun, sweetheart," Dad added, giving me one last wink before disappearing into the night.
Aliya dragged me back onto the dance floor soon after, declaring that midnight meant "second wind o'clock." The music had gotten louder, sweatier, and a bit more chaotic—exactly the way she liked it.
Somewhere between one song and the next, a couple of boys made their way over to us. I think Ethan's friends. One of them—tall, slightly scruffy, probably around twenty—caught my eye. He started dancing near me. Not too close, not pushy, but just enough to make it clear he'd noticed me.
He asked my name between songs, then spun me around during a remix of something I barely recognised. His hands stayed respectful, his grin lazy and kind. We danced. I laughed. And maybe for the first time in months, I felt like I wasn't carrying the weight of everything on my back.
I moved with him—not exactly provocatively, but more freely than I usually dared. Maybe it was the shots. Maybe it was the music. Or maybe it was just that something was finally beginning to shift inside me.
I started to feel like I might actually be able to relax. Like I could maybe find someone to mesh with.
After all, I'd only ever been with my ex-boyfriend. And until tonight, I hadn't really believed there might be more after him.
But here I was—wearing a pink feather boa and a glittery plastic crown, swaying under strobe lights—and starting to think… maybe there was.
We continue dancing for what feels like forever, it's only been 20mins, Aliya cuts in, loudly shouting "C'mon! Afterparty!"
"Okay!" I yell back, smiling widely at the boy I'm dancing with.
We make our way outside, the night was heavy with mist, wrapping around us like a damp blanket as we tumbled out of the club's doors. The music still pulsed faintly behind us, muffled by brick walls and distance, as if the night itself wasn't ready to let go.
I wasn't drunk— Just… pleasantly blurred. The kind of fuzzy where every word felt slightly funnier, every light looked like a star, and my feet didn't quite touch the pavement. I wasn't stumbling, but I wasn't walking in a straight line either. Just floating, somewhere in between.
Aliya was beside me, eyes glassy with excitement, arm linked through mine. My feather boa was wrapped around her, shedding like a moulting bird, bits of pink fluff sticking to her leather jacket. "Afterparty!" she chanted, as if it were the only word that mattered.
I blinked at her, blinking through eyeliner and sweat and the sudden cold. "Where?"
She spun around and pointed across the street. "Jamie's uncle's workshop. You know—the one behind the old betting shop? They cleared it out last week. It's become, like, the unofficial party cave." She spoke to me as if I knew who Jamie was, forgetting I've just moved here.
Behind us, the rest of the group spilled out—Aliya's friends and the cluster of boys we'd been dancing with. Everyone was in that same sweet state of post-midnight euphoria: not sober, not wasted, just alive. Someone was already swinging a speaker over their shoulder like a boombox, music bleeding out as we crossed the quiet road in clumsy clumps, laughing for no reason, someone yelling about kebabs, someone else trying to light a cigarette that wouldn't catch in the mist.
The workshop didn't look like much from the outside—just a wide metal roller door and a back alley light flickering overhead—but inside, it was a different world. Someone had strung fairy lights across the ceiling, soft and golden like a low sky. A couple of old beanbags were scattered across the floor, and there was a battered sofa in one corner next to a mini fridge humming faintly. The air smelled faintly of motor oil, beer, and cheap cologne. It shouldn't have worked—but it did.
I settled in. The music had shifted from club beats to chilled indie and old-school R&B, the kind that made you sway without realising. Aliya disappeared into a knot of friends, already dancing again, her laughter a steady soundtrack.
I found myself perched on the arm of the sofa, drink in hand, the boy I'd danced with earlier appearing beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world. He had that lazy confidence—messy dark hair, crooked smile, a hoodie pulled over his button-down like he hadn't quite decided who he wanted to be tonight.
"Emma, right?" he asked, tipping his cup toward mine.
"Yep," I replied, feeling the warmth rise in my chest again—half from the drink, half from how close he was.
"Callum," he said, reintroducing himself. "You probably didn't hear me the first time over that horrific remix of 'Mr. Brightside.'"
I laughed. "Probably not. You were doing a lot of shoulder work, though."
"Signature move," he grinned. "So… tell me something."
"What?"
"Have you ever kissed a Welsh man?"
I raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little, a playful smirk tugging at my lips. "Is that your go-to line?"
"No," he said smoothly. "It's my cultural duty to ask." He placed his hand on his heart, chest puffed out.
I shook my head, grinning. "No, I haven't."
He leaned in just slightly, not enough to crowd me, just enough for the question to settle between us.
"Want to test it out?"
The air stilled.
His eyes sparkled under the glow of the fairy lights, his lips parted ever so slightly like he already knew the answer. I could smell cider on his breath—sweet, tangy—and something warmer underneath. I looked away for a second, not because I was unsure, but because the moment felt weirdly important.
No one was watching. Aliya was somewhere in the corner, dramatically lip-syncing into a bottle of WKD. Someone had spilled a drink on the floor. A boy was laughing at his own joke far too loudly. And in the middle of all that chaos, this moment felt… still.
I'd only ever kissed one person before. My ex. And that kiss had always come with layers—expectations, labels, history. This one would be different. It would be easy. A nothing-something. Just a kiss. But still… a first of a different kind.
"I don't know," I said slowly, teasing, eyes flicking up to meet his. "What if I don't like it?"
He smiled again, softer this time. "Then I guess I've got something to prove."
He didn't lean in. He waited. Giving me the space to decide. Not pressuring. Not rushing.
And that… that made all the difference.