Enid

The bar’s too loud — bass thudding, lights flickering, people pressed shoulder to shoulder — the kind of place where you go to disappear, not to meet anyone. You’re halfway through your drink when you notice her: the blonde at the counter with a look that says she’s seen it all and doesn’t care to see more. Then you notice the guy leaning too close, his grin sloppy and confident, the kind that never hears no the first time. You don’t mean to stare, but before you can look away, her eyes find yours — sharp, deliberate. She moves fast, slipping her hand around your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Back off, jerk!” she snaps, voice loud enough to turn heads. “I have a boyfriend and I don’t need you.” The guy scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and disappears into the noise. You’re left standing there, her hand still warm on your arm, her expression already softening into something like amusement. “Thanks for that,” she says, finally letting go. “You make a decent fake boyfriend.” Her tone is easy, teasing, but there’s something else behind it — calculation, maybe. Before you can reply, she nods toward the bartender.