I better go with Monica

I hesitate for a moment and Monica’s fingers loop through mine as she guides us to the bar in what seems like rescue. Better this way, probably.

Ryan’s already there with a drink in each hand and a third set down for whoever shows up next.

“There you two are. I was starting to think you got ****.”

Monica rolls her eyes and takes her glass from him without saying a word. I grab the one he offers me, grateful for the distraction. The tequila hits right away—burning, comforting. I lean an elbow on the bar and let myself unwind.

Then, instinctively, I glance back toward the dancefloor.

She's still there, dancing. At least she stopped staring at me.

I turn back towards my friends and try to forget about her. We make small talk, the kind that comes easy with **** and familiar faces. I feel myself settling, relaxing.

But after some time I hear Ryan exhale sharply.

"Whoa. Holy shit."

His gaze is fixed past me. My spine stiffens as I slowly turn.

_She's here. _Leaning casually near the far end of the bar now, almost like she’s waiting for something—or someone. Her eyes scan lazily over the club, then land on me. And stay.

She smiles, just slightly.

It’s not a friendly smile. It’s not a come-hither one either. It's... confident. Like she already knows how this ends. Like she doesn’t need to try.

I look away quickly, feel the flush crawl up my neck. Jesus.

“Who is she?” Ryan asks under his breath.

Yeah, that's something I'd like to know too.

“She’s been looking at you all night,” Monica mutters, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice. “Or maybe just making sure you’re looking at her.”

I shrug, trying to play it off. “Uhm... yeah. It’s nothing, probably.”

But it’s not nothing. My skin feels tight, my chest too warm. I sip again, suddenly aware of how much I'm fidgeting with the glass.

“She’s hot though,” Ryan says, half-laughing. “Right? Like... super hot.”

"Jesus, Ryan, I'm right here, you jerk." Monica groans.

He raises both hands. "I'm just saying! She's got that whole... French film energy or something."

Monica makes a face and turns back to me. “Do you know her?”

“No.” I say it too fast.

Which is true, technically. But it doesn't feel like a no.

I try not to look at her again, but of course I do. She’s ordered a drink now, stirring it absently with her straw, her head tilted like she’s listening to something only she can hear. And then, as if on cue, she pushes off the bar and begins to walk.

Toward us.

Monica stiffens beside me. Ryan tries to act normal, but I see the way he subtly straightens up and adjusts his jacket. And I? I freeze.

She moves without hesitation—calm, like she’s got all night and knows it.

"Hi," she says smoothly, her voice lower than I expected. Clear, but soft at the edges and with a slight accent. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Her eyes land on me like we’re already in the middle of something. Like I missed the first half of a conversation.

"You’re not," I manage to say, maybe too quickly. "I mean—we're just having drinks."

She smiles. “Looked like you were dancing earlier.”

I laugh a little, ducking my head. “That obvious?”

"Not at all. You seemed..." She pauses. "Comfortable in your skin.”

That gets to me. It’s not the kind of compliment I usually hear. People say I’m pretty or hot, or that I have a nice smile or beautiful eyes. That standard shit just to get in my pants. But comfortable in your skin? That hits somewhere else. Somewhere I’m not sure is a compliment at all.

“Thanks,” I say, more quietly this time.

"I’m Ariadne," she says, finally.

“Thalia.”

Something flickers in her eyes. "Pretty name. Greek?"

I nod. "Yeah, my mom was... into mythology. It stuck."

“Well, it suits you,” she says. "You’re not often here, are you?"

That throws me. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve got that look. Like you're still deciding whether you hate this place or just haven’t found a reason to stay.”

Okay, that’s... weirdly specific. Accurate.

I blink. “Is that how I look?”

“To me,” she says, smiling like it’s not a big deal.

Her attention is suffocating. Not because it’s unwelcome—no, it’s the opposite. It’s warm and slow and focused, like she’s doing it on purpose. Like she’s reading me in real time. I feel both exposed and flattered.

Ryan coughs awkwardly and tries to interject. “I’m Ryan, by the way.”

She glances at him politely. “Hi, Ryan.”

Then back to me.

I can hear Monica exhale through her nose.

“So... do you always approach strangers like this?” I ask, mostly to break the weird silence.

Ariadne tilts her head. “Only the interesting ones.”

“What makes me interesting?”

“You haven’t looked away from me once,” she says.

Goddamn it. She’s right. I take a long sip from my drink, needing something to cool me off.

“So what brings you here tonight?” she asks.

“Same as anyone, I guess. Needed a night out. Get out of my head for a bit.”

“Did it work?”

I look at her.

“I think I’m still in it,” I murmur.

That earns a small, real smile from her. Not smug this time—almost pleased.

And just like that, I start to forget about everything else. The bar noise, the crowd behind me, even Monica and Ryan feel like background static.

Until Monica touches my elbow.

“Hey,” she says, tight-lipped. “Come with me to the bathroom?”

I turn, mildly annoyed. “I’m fine.”

“I know. I just—” She lowers her voice. “Can we talk?”

I sigh. Not this. Not now.

{if Helped_Ethan = 0}

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at Monica. She’s doing that protective big-sister thing again, and I’m not in the mood.

Meeting this girl, Ariadne, is like the most interesting thing that could happen this night I'm dropping it now. Monica can wait.

{else}

But then—as if Monica's intrusion made my brain work a bit—Ethan's voice creeps into my mind like a cold breeze:

“But if you’re unlucky... she’s already watching."

My fingers tighten slightly on the glass. I look back at Ariadne, who’s watching Monica now—not angry, but amused. Almost like she was expecting this.

I feel it: the pull, the wanting... and the warning underneath.{endif}