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“Let me get you a drink,” he insists.

I shake my head. “I’ve already ordered.”

The alcohol mixed with the arrogance that men in bars seem to possess is of no surprise, as he completely dismisses my discomfort.

“But why won’t you let me buy you a drink?” he asks, agitation in his tone. “We can get to know each other.”

This time I remain silent, and fight the strong, inherent urge to people-please and coddle him.

I know I can step out of the line. Nina isn’t going to be mad that I removed myself from an unpredictable and potentially unsafe situation; drinks aren’t worth that much. But the fact that the onus is on me—the person who is standing here, minding her own business—and not him, to read the room and fuck off, is infuriating.

“You’re being a bitch,” he spits out, the insult not even a little bit surprising. “I’m just trying to be nice to you.”

Just as I turn and face this fucker, ready to tell him where to go, I feel a hand curl around my waist, warm skin skimming against my bare midriff, and a body slide in the space behind me. It’s a soft, gentle touch, featherlight almost, and their presence is more soothing than overwhelming.

The man’s eyes dart to the person behind me, and I can’t help but turn and follow his gaze. Expecting to find Nina or any of the other people I arrived with behind me, my heart stutters and I almost swallow my tongue when I come face-to-face with a woman I’ve never seen before.

Her eyes are a deep, rich brown, her hair wavy, cascading down and around her face and shoulders. She’s only a few inches taller than me, and the soft, shallow laugh lines around her eyes and pillowy-looking mouth hint that she might be a little older than me too.

Noticing my perusal, she licks her lips, the corner of them tipping up into a barely-there smirk, before glancing between me and the man behind me.

“Sorry,” she says, keeping her eyes focused on mine. “The bathroom line was ridiculous.”

I stare at her, completely dumbfounded, my tongue tied.

Unfazed, she steps closer to me, and my hands gravitate to her waist, keeping her still, as she leans her head over my shoulder.

“Can I help you?” she says to the man behind us, the challenge in her voice unmissable, even in the noisy club.

“Are you her girlfriend?” he asks.

At his question, she peers back at me, almost like she’s either asking me or giving me permission to answer him. Dropping my hands, I turn to face him, my back now in line with the front of her, the limited space between us providing an unexpected and yet welcome sense of security.

His salacious stare makes me feel uneasy, and I don’t realize I’ve inched my body backward until I feel arms protectively wrap around my waist. The intrusion on my personal space should bother me—it normally would—and yet no part of me has any desire to move. Instead, I find myself leaning into her, placing my arms over hers and playing the part.

“Yes,” I say, eventually answering the man’s question. The words roll off my tongue effortlessly, almost eagerly. “This is my girlfriend.”

Not wanting to give him a single second more of my time, I shift in the woman’s arms, almost expecting her to let me go, but when she doesn’t, we just stand there, staring at one another.

We’re a breath apart, arms still loosely wrapped around each other, my gaze getting lost in hers. It’s as if the noise and the crowd cease to exist, until a voice behind me interrupts the trance.

“Kiss her,” he says. “If you’re together, I want to see you two kiss.”

Between his insistence to be so abrasive and his complete disrespect for anyone other than himself, rage coils around my spine. My jaw tightens, but before I have the chance to turn around and tell him exactly how I feel, hands rest on either side of my face, stopping me, calming me.

Worried that she’s going to pander to this man’s request, I open my mouth to object, but she shakes her head imperceptibly, almost like she’s telling me not to.

I’m not known for my ability to take orders, but curiosity silences me, and I wait to see her next move. My eyes dart down to her mouth for a sliver of a second, the thought of kissing her in any other circumstances strangely appealing.

Moving her hands down to my waist again, she shifts me to the side and steps forward, maneuvering herself in between me and the man.

I watch as she leans into him, her mouth near his ear, and his face lights up, like she might possibly be entertaining his disgusting thoughts. When his face falls, a wide, unmissable smile stretches my lips.

I have no idea what she said to him, but his expression is priceless, anger and shock written on every inch of his face.

Without a second glance, she grabs my hand, curling her fingers around mine, and walks us away from him. I dutifully follow, completely swept up in this moment and this woman. Hand in hand, we walk through the crowd and up a flight of stairs that leads to the rooftop.

The air is balmy but still cooler than inside the crowded club, the music now nothing more than a muted beat below us.