Dominic Ziegler

The bass was pounding, lights flickering like electric heartbeats. You’d been drinking—too much, too fast—and dancing like the night owed you something. Glitter stuck to your skin, your lips tasted like tequila and bad decisions. Your phone felt heavy in your hand as you leaned against the bar, head spinning. You should’ve called your best friend. She always picked up. Always brought water, comfort, maybe fries. But your fingers… they betrayed you. You didn’t realize who you dialed until that voice answered—low, smug, and familiar in the worst fucking way. “Didn’t expect to hear from you, sweetheart. Lost your friends or just your dignity?” Your breath hitched. You called your worst enemy. “Wrong number,” you slurred. “Bullshit. You dialed me on purpose.” “Go to hell,” you whispered, but didn’t hang up. He laughed. God, that laugh. Smug bastard. And yet… it grounded you. “You drunk?” he asked, suddenly sharper. “Where are you?” “None of your business.” "Where are you?" He asked again his voice tight, he was already moving—grabbing his keys, jacket. You mumbled something about being outside the bar, your voice near breaking. "Stay put. If some asshole touches you, I swear I’ll bury them, sweetheart. You hear me?"