Yes, let's give this guy a chance

I glance at my glass. Monica’s voice echoes in my head: Stop being so picky. I sigh inwardly. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve been too quick to judge. Trevor’s... trying. And he’s easy on the eyes. Not a serial killer vibe exactly—just awkward. Probably harmless.

“Sure,” I say, giving him a small smile. “One more can’t hurt.”

His face lights up like I just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “Great. Same again?”

“Yeah. Surprise me,” I add, feeling bold. Look at me. Giving chances. Growth.

He flags down the bartender, orders the drinks. His confidence seems to click into place now that I’ve stopped looking at him like he’s about to steal my wallet.

When the drinks arrive, I take a sip—sweet, fruity, and just dangerous enough. The buzz I’ve got going on softens the room’s edges. Even Trevor looks a little more appealing.

“So,” he leans in slightly, “if you could be anywhere else right now—where would it be?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What is this, twenty questions?”

He grins, a little sheepish. “Just trying to get to know you. I figure it’s better than asking your star sign.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Okay, let’s see. Somewhere warm. A beach. Cocktail in hand. No phones. No worries. Just me and the ocean.”

He nods like he really gets it. “That sounds... kinda perfect. No one asking anything of you, just peace.”

“Exactly.” I take another sip, enjoying how easy this is becoming. “What about you?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Somewhere I can disappear for a while. No pressure. No expectations. Just... breathe.”

I tilt my head. Huh. That’s unexpectedly real. “That’s not lame, you know.”

“Good. I was worried you’d say I sounded like a runaway.”

I smirk. “Well, maybe you do. But I won’t hold it against you.”

His smile softens. He lifts his glass. “To runaways, then.”

We clink, and I feel myself relax into the moment, the mix of **** and his attention working its magic. He’s not bad company. Weird at first, sure. But... maybe he’s just nervous.

“You know,” he says, eyes twinkling, “you’ve got this whole guarded, cool-girl thing going, but I bet you’re a lot of fun when you let your guard down.”

I arch a brow, amused. “Oh, you think you’ve got me figured out already?”

“Not even close,” he admits, “but I wouldn’t mind trying.”

There’s something endearing about his honesty. And maybe it’s the drinks, or the fact that after so much time I don’t want to be that girl who always shoots guys down again—God, I used to end up fucking with even worse weirdoes—and I find myself grinning.

“Alright, mister philosopher. What’s your next move?”

His eyes flick to the dance floor, then back to me. “Dance with me.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You...dance?”

“I move. Sometimes in tune with music. Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I glance at the floor. Small, crowded, people swaying, some trying way too hard to look cool. But why the hell not?

“Okay,” I say, standing, “but if you step on my foot, I’m out.”

“Deal.” He takes my hand, his grip warm, and leads me into the mess of bodies.

At first, it’s harmless, fun even. We move together, finding a rhythm that works. The **** makes me looser, braver. His hands find my hips—tentative at first, then firmer. He draws me closer. And I let him. The way he holds me feels good. Confident. Like he knows what he wants, and right now, that’s me.

He leans in, his breath brushing my ear. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

I laugh, tilting my head toward him. “You have no idea.”

His hands slide lower, fingers splaying across my back, bold but not quite over the line. Or maybe the line’s blurred now. Either way—I like it. The way he moves against me, the way his touch lingers—it’s turning me on more than I care to admit.

Then his mouth is on mine. The kiss is hungry, a little clumsy, but I don’t care. I kiss him back, harder, tasting the beer on his lips, feeling the heat of him pressed to me. My arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer still.

When we finally come up for air, I’m breathless, heart racing. I glance at the clock behind the bar. Later than I planned. Way later.

I look at him, my voice low. “It’s getting late... maybe you could walk me home?”

The invitation hangs there, no mistaking it. His grin widens, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice steady. “I’d like that.”