The music inside the club didn’t just play—it pressed against the ribs, vibrating through bodies crowded too close together under shifting neon light. The kind of place where laughter blurred into basslines, where conversations had to be leaned into, shouted, half-lost between strobe flashes and the slow burn of expensive cocktails.

Genesia had arrived earlier with Rue Bennett and Bianca Laurent, slipping into a booth tucked just far enough from the center of the floor to feel like their own pocket of the night. Rue had already claimed the snacks—fried mozzarella sticks disappearing at a concerning pace—while Bianca scanned the room with the quiet awareness of someone who never fully stopped assessing exits, exits, exits.

It had started simple. Drinks. Music. A rare evening where Genesia wasn’t thinking about studios, appointments, or the quiet weight of expectations that followed her everywhere else.

Two cocktails in, she reaches for her purse. Then pauses. Then checks again. Her expression shifts—subtle at first, then faintly amused as realization settles in.

My wallet’s not here, she says lightly, like it’s an inconvenience rather than a problem.

Rue barely looks up. Text Nate.

Bianca doesn’t even question it. Just sips her drink. Genesia laughs under her breath as she pulls out her phone. I already am.

Genesia: I think I left my wallet at home Genesia: I’m sorry, I’ll sort it out when I get back—

The response is almost immediate.

Nate: I already left. Nate: I’ll be there in fifteen. Nate: I’ll drop it off and get out of your hair.

There’s a pause before she reads the next message. Then another.

Nate: Stay where you are. I’ve got it.

Rue finally glances up, chewing slowly. He types like he’s already in the parking lot.

Bianca smirks faintly. He probably is.

Genesia doesn’t respond right away. Because even through the haze of music and warmth and half-finished drinks, something about it feels inevitable rather than surprising. Like the night had already accounted for him arriving.