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Summer in LA always smells like heat and asphalt and something sweet rotting just beneath it. Jade can smell it now as they spill out of Beck’s RV—jasmine from someone’s hedge, cheap alcohol on her own breath, anticipation thick in the humid air.
The glitter catches in the streetlights, and Jade is already regretting every life choice that led to Cat wielding cosmetics like weapons. Silver shimmer dusts across her collarbones, settling into the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats too fast. More of it probably glints in her black hair from when Cat had gotten enthusiastic with her application.
Tori had submitted to the glitter assault with that easy laugh of hers—the one that sounds like summer itself, warm and golden and dangerous. She’d tipped her head back and let Cat dust gold along the sharp edge of her cheekbones, down the elegant line of her neck, across the collarbones that her tank top puts on shameless display. Jade had watched from across Beck’s RV, vodka bottle loose in her hand, the dim string lights caught those gold flecks and made them glow against Tori’s skin like she’d been dipped in starlight.
“You look like a disco ball,” Jade had told her, because saying you look like something I want to taste seemed like it might cross a line they’d been toeing all summer.
“You’re one to talk,” Tori had shot back, but her eyes had dropped to Jade’s throat—to that glittering hollow where Jade’s pulse was absolutely betraying her—and lingered there long enough that Jade forgot how to breathe properly. Long enough that the vodka warmth in her veins had turned into something hotter, something dangerous that coiled tight in her core and made her breath catch. She could feel her body waking up to Tori’s attention, heat gathering between her legs, and they weren’t even touching. Just Tori’s eyes on her throat, that weighted look making Jade hyperaware of every inch of space between their bodies, making her ache to close the distance.
That’s been the theme of the summer, really. Their second summer back from college, and somehow everything has shifted without either of them acknowledging it. They’d stayed in touch through the past two school years—the whole group had, their group chat a constant stream of memes and complaints about exams and blurry photos from parties. But some of them had gotten closer. André had spent winter break in New York shadowing a producer and had come back with a phone full of industry contacts. Beck and Cat still saw each other most weekends, her in San Francisco at a fashion program, him at Berkeley doing fuck-knows-what with film. Robbie had basically disappeared into USC’s theater program and only surfaced for air occasionally.
And Tori and Jade had… well. They’d texted. A lot. Random shit at first—Tori sending photos of her terrible dorm food at UCSD, Jade complaining about her pretentious classmates at Chapman. Then longer conversations, late-night exchanges about classes and music and nothing and everything. Video calls that started as group things and ended with just the two of them, talking until one of them fell asleep.
When they’d both come back to LA for the summer, something had been different. Or maybe it had always been there and Jade was just finally letting herself see it. The way Tori looked at her. The way Tori’s hand found excuses to touch her—casual brushes of fingers when passing a drink, a palm flat between Jade’s shoulder blades when guiding her through a doorway, knuckles grazing her wrist when making a point. Touches that lingered a second too long, that left heat-prints on Jade’s skin for hours afterward.
And Jade can’t tell if they’re flirting or if this is just how Tori is. If the electricity crackling between them is real or if it’s just wishful thinking on her part, just her own desperate gay brain reading into every smile and every touch because Tori is right there and gorgeous and funny and so fucking close Jade can smell her perfume half the time—something citrus-bright with an undertone of vanilla that makes Jade want to lean in and trace her nose along Tori’s neck to find where the scent lives strongest.
The Troubadour’s marquee bleeds neon into the Hollywood night, black letters announcing some band called Violet Hour. André knew the lead guitarist from his New York trip—they’d stayed in touch, and when the band booked a West Coast tour, André had gotten all of them on the list. He’d been hyping them for weeks, playing their demos in his car, insisting this was the kind of show they’d want to say they’d been to once the band inevitably blew up.
But Jade doesn’t really care about the band. She cares about the way Tori’s denim shorts sit low on her hips, about the strip of golden skin between her waistband and where her black tank top ends. She cares about the fact that they’ve been drinking just enough that all her careful control feels like it’s slipping, that the careful distance she usually maintains is eroding with every shared smile, every casual touch.
The bass is already audible from the street, a low throb that Jade feels in her sternum. People are clustered outside smoking, their laughter sharp in the warm night air. The smell of cigarettes mixes with exhaust from Santa Monica Boulevard, with hot asphalt still radiating the day’s heat, with perfume and cologne from the bodies pressing toward the entrance.
“God, I missed this,” Tori says, close enough that her shoulder presses against Jade’s as they walk. Close enough that Jade can feel the heat of her body in the cooling evening air, can catch that citrus-vanilla scent under the smell of smoke and street. “There are no good shows in San Diego.”
Jade cuts her eyes sideways, catches Tori in profile—the gold glitter on her cheekbone catching the neon, her hair falling in loose waves that Jade wants to wrap around her fingers. “You just miss LA.”
“Maybe.” Tori’s smile is soft, private. “Missed this, though. All of us.”
She doesn't say missed you but Jade hears it anyway, feels it in the way Tori’s arm brushes hers, in the way her voice drops on the word this like it means something more than their friend group, more than nostalgia for high school hangouts.
“The glitter is still stupid,” Jade says, because she needs to say something that isn’t I missed you too, I thought about you constantly, I have your texts memorized.
“Cat’s happy.” Tori bumps her hip against Jade’s, and it’s deliberate, playful, the kind of touch that could mean nothing or could mean everything. “That’s what matters, right?”
“You are such a pushover, Vega.”
“She has photographic evidence of me passed out and drunk at André’s. I’m just protecting my interests. Besides, I like the glitter. It looks good on you.”
Jade’s stomach does something complicated. She glances over at Tori, catches her smiling in that way that makes Jade forget how words work. “It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s pretty,” Tori says, and her voice drops just slightly, her eyes lingering on Jade’s. “Especially on you.”
Jade’s brain short-circuits for a solid five seconds before she manages, “You’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk.” Tori’s smile turns wicked.
They make it past the door, IDs checked with half-hearted attention by a bouncer who looks deeply bored with his life. The heat of the venue slams into them, a wall of body warmth and stale beer and sweet-smoke and anticipation. The air is thick enough that Jade can practically taste it—yeasty and close and electric. The opening band is already on stage, their sound spilling out in waves—guitar feedback and driving drums and a bassline that Jade feels in her teeth.
The crowd is packed dense, a living organism that pulses and sways with the music. Bodies pressed together, the floor sticky with spilled drinks, the mingled scents of perfume and cologne and sweat creating something heady and intoxicating—the particular smell of a crowd losing itself, surrendering to the music and the heat and the moment.
Stage lights cut through the haze—red, then gold, then electric blue—painting everyone in shifting colors, turning faces into fragments of themselves. The glitter dusting everyone’s skin catches and throws back the light in tiny explosions, like they’re all slowly detonating. Like they’re all little fireworks waiting to ignite.
“We’re pushing up!” André shouts over his shoulder, already carving a path through the crowd, and they fall into formation behind him—Cat’s hand locked in Robbie’s, Beck navigating the gaps with the kind of easy confidence he brings to everything, Tori and Jade bringing up the rear.
Except then Tori’s fingers slide between Jade’s, and the world narrows to that point of contact.
Her hand is warm, slightly damp from the heat of the venue, and her grip is firm as she pulls Jade forward into the crowd. The touch sends electricity up Jade’s arm, makes her skin prickle with awareness, makes every nerve ending suddenly, acutely alive. She can feel Tori’s pulse against her palm—quick and strong—or maybe that’s her own heartbeat, maybe there’s no difference anymore. The pressure of Tori’s fingers between hers is grounding and disorienting all at once, an anchor point in the chaos of bodies and sound.
They push deeper into the crowd, and bodies press in from all sides. The opening band is building toward something, the guitar getting louder, the drums more insistent, and the crowd responds, pushing forward, pressing tighter. A girl in a mesh top stumbles backward into Jade, her elbow catching Jade’s ribs, and she mumbles something that might be an apology. A guy with a man-bun nearly elbows Tori in the face as he throws his hands up, and Jade pulls her closer on instinct, their joined hands trapped between them now, pressed against Tori’s back where Jade can feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her tank top.
They keep moving, following the distant bob of André’s head through the crowd, but it’s getting harder to navigate. The bodies are packed tighter the closer they get to the stage, the air getting hotter, thicker. Sweat is starting to gather at the base of Jade’s spine, between her breasts, and she can see it gleaming on Tori’s shoulders, making the gold glitter shine wet.
The opening band launches into something faster, heavier, and the crowd surges forward like a wave. Jade loses sight of Beck’s head somewhere ahead of them, catches a glimpse of Cat’s hot pink hair and then it’s gone, swallowed by the mass of bodies. She tries to push forward, following the direction she last saw them, but it’s impossible—people are packed shoulder to shoulder now, and every time she moves she just gets pressed up against someone else.
Tori glances back over her shoulder, and even in the strobing lights Jade can see the exact moment she realizes it’s just the two of them now. Can see her eyes widen slightly, her lips parting. The stage lights catch the gold on her cheekbones, making her look incandescent, like something burning, and Jade’s breath catches in her throat.
Tori turns more fully, has to press closer to Jade to do it in the tight press of bodies, and suddenly they’re face to face with barely inches between them. “Lost them,” Tori says, not quite shouting but pitching her voice to carry over the music.
Jade’s hand is still locked in hers. She can feel Tori’s pulse jumping in her wrist, can see a tiny bead of sweat in her hairline. “We can try to find them,” she offers, but she doesn’t move.
Tori’s eyes drop to their joined hands, then back up to Jade’s face. “Or we could stay here,” she says. “We can see fine from here.”
It’s practical. It makes sense. Trying to find their friends in this crowd would be nearly impossible, and they’ve got a decent sight line to the stage from where they are.
It’s also absolutely not about logistics.
“Yeah,” Jade says, and her voice comes out rougher than intended. “We can stay here.”
Tori’s smile is wide and it makes something flutter dangerously in Jade’s chest. Her thumb moves in a slow circle against Jade’s hand, and Jade is suddenly aware of every point where their bodies are close to touching—Tori’s hip an inch from hers, their shoulders almost brushing, the heat radiating between them more intense than the general heat of the venue.
The opening band finishes their set to scattered applause and drunken cheering, and the house lights come up slightly—not bright, just enough to see by. Jade should let go of Tori’s hand. They’re not moving anymore, they’re not trying to stay together through the crowd. There’s no practical reason to still be holding on.
She doesn’t let go. Tori doesn’t either.
The crowd shifts restlessly in the relative quiet, conversations rising to fill the space between sets. Jade can hear fragments of slurred debates about the opening band, someone behind them laughing too loud, the clink of bottles. The air is thick with humidity now—all that body heat and breath condensing in the close space—and then the house lights drop completely.
The crowd erupts.
It’s a wall of sound—screaming and cheering and whistling—and then the stage explodes with light. Not the shifting colors from before but something brighter, more intense. White spotlights cut through the darkness like blades, and then color floods in—deep purple washing over everything, turning the crowd into shadows and suggestions. The first notes hit, the bass so deep Jade feels it vibrating up through the soles of her boots, reverberating through her ribs like a second heartbeat.
Violet Hour takes the stage and the energy in the room transforms immediately. The lead singer—a woman with bleached hair and dark lipstick—grabs the mic and the crowd surges forward like they’re being pulled by a string.
Jade’s front collides with Tori’s back.
There’s no space between them now. None. Jade can feel every line of Tori’s body against hers—her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass pressed against the front of Jade’s skirt. The crowd is packed so tight that Jade couldn’t step back if she wanted to, and she doesn’t want to. God, she doesn’t want to.
Tori’s hair is right there, falling in waves across her shoulders, and every time someone jostles them it brushes against Jade’s face. It smells like coconut shampoo and underneath that, something warmer—the scent of Tori’s skin, clean sweat and perfume. Jade’s free hand hovers uncertainly at her side for a moment before the crowd surges again and she has to grab onto something for balance, and the something she grabs is Tori’s hip.
Her palm meets bare skin where Tori’s tank top has ridden up, and the contact sends heat racing up her arm. Tori’s skin is burning hot, slick with a light sheen of sweat, and Jade’s fingers flex involuntarily against the curve of her hip bone. She should probably let go. She should definitely let go.
Tori reaches down and covers Jade’s hand with her own, pressing it more firmly against her hip.
It’s permission. It’s invitation. It’s an answer to every question Jade’s been too afraid to ask all summer, and the realization hits her so hard she forgets how to breathe.
The band launches into their second song, something with a driving beat that the crowd immediately starts moving to, and Tori starts swaying. It’s subtle at first—just her hips moving to the rhythm, her body shifting against Jade’s. Jade stands frozen for a moment, hyperaware of every point of contact, of the way Tori’s ass presses against her with each movement, of the heat of her skin under Jade’s palm.
Then Tori glances back over her shoulder, and even in the purple-tinted darkness Jade can see the question in her eyes. The stage lights flash gold for a moment and the sparkle on Tori’s cheekbone blazes.
Jade’s other hand finds Tori’s other hip, and she starts moving with her.
The music is deafening now, the bass so loud it’s not just in Jade’s chest but everywhere—in her bones, in her teeth, vibrating through the floor and up through her legs. The stage lights are going insane, strobing red and gold and white and purple, and in the flashing darkness it feels like they’re the only two people in the entire venue. Like the hundred other bodies pressed around them don’t exist.
Tori leans back into her, and Jade’s grip on her hips tightens reflexively. She can feel the muscles in Tori’s stomach shifting under her fingers when she moves, can feel the heat radiating off her skin, can feel every breath she takes. The crowd is jumping now, hands in the air, and someone’s elbow catches Jade’s shoulder but she barely notices because Tori is rolling her hips back into her in a way that is definitely, absolutely not just swaying to the music.
Jade’s mouth goes dry. Her heart is hammering so hard she can feel it in her throat, and the vodka warmth from earlier has turned into something molten, something that’s pooling low in her stomach and spreading heat through her entire body. She can feel herself growing slick with want, the fabric of her underwear clinging uncomfortably, and every roll of Tori’s hips back against her makes it worse. Her fingers dig into Tori’s hips, probably harder than necessary, and Tori makes this small sound that Jade feels more than hears—a little gasp or sigh that goes straight through her and makes her clench with desire.
The song builds, getting faster, and Tori’s movements get more deliberate. She’s grinding back against Jade now, there’s no other word for it, her ass pressing against Jade’s front in a rhythm that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the electricity that’s been crackling between them all summer. Jade’s hands slide from her hips across her stomach, and she feels the muscle there trembling, feels the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
Jade leans in without thinking, her lips nearly brushing the shell of Tori’s ear. “Is this okay?” she asks, and she has to pitch her voice loud to be heard over the music, her mouth so close to Tori’s skin she can feel the heat coming off her.
Tori turns her head, and suddenly their faces are centimeters apart, Tori’s cheek pressed against Jade’s, her lips right there by Jade’s jaw. “Yeah,” she breathes, and Jade feels the word more than hears it. Then Tori’s arms come up and back, her hands tangling in Jade’s hair, and they’re not just dancing anymore.
Jade’s hands roam more boldly now—sliding from Tori’s stomach to her hips, her fingers finding the strip of bare skin at her waistband and tracing along it, dipping just barely under the hem of her shorts. Tori arches back against her, her head falling back onto Jade’s shoulder, and Jade can see the long line of her throat, see the shimmer there gleaming with each strobe of light, see the pulse jumping visibly under her skin. The wanting between her legs has become impossible to ignore—a hollow ache that makes her want to slide her hand lower on Tori’s body, to find out if Tori’s just as affected, just as needy.
The song shifts, the tempo changing, and Tori rolls her hips harder. Jade’s hands slide lower, over the outside of Tori’s thighs, past her jean shorts, feeling the shift of muscle under her skin, and then back up, her thumbs tracing the hollow where her hips meet her legs. Tori’s hands tighten in Jade’s hair, and Jade’s lips trail along Tori’s jaw, not quite kissing but dragging soft enough to feel the texture of her skin, to taste the salt and to smell that citrus-vanilla perfume mixing with pure Tori. Her breath is coming in pants now, hot against Tori’s neck, and she feels more than hears Tori’s responding gasp. Tori turns her head, trying to catch Jade’s lips with her own, but the angle is wrong and instead Jade’s mouth just grazes the corner of Tori’s, her bottom lip catching on the edge of her jawbone.
The set continues—song after song of driving bass and screaming guitars, the energy in the venue never dropping. Jade loses track of how many songs pass, loses track of everything except the heat of Tori’s body against hers, the rhythm of their movement together.
They don’t stop dancing. Can’t stop, maybe. Each new song just pulls them deeper into it—Tori grinding back against her with increasing confidence, Jade’s hands growing bolder in their exploration, sliding under Tori’s tank top to feel the underwire of her bra, dipping under the waistband of her shorts, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The songs blur together into one continuous wave of sound and sensation, and Jade is drunk on it—on the music, on the vodka still warm in her veins, on Tori moving against her. She’s soaking through her underwear now, her desire coiled so tight and insistent inside her that every movement feels like she might come apart at the seams.
Sometimes Tori glances back over her shoulder, and their eyes meet in the strobing lights, and the look on her face makes Jade’s stomach flip. Want and heat and something that looks like disbelief, like Tori can’t quite believe this is happening either. Then she turns back around and rolls her hips harder, and Jade has to bite down on her own lip to keep from making sounds that would be audible even over the deafening music.
Then the band launches into the final song, and the opening chords make the entire crowd scream. The crowd around them is going wild, jumping and screaming, but Jade barely registers it. All she can focus on is Tori—the heat of her, the smell of her, the way she’s moving against Jade like she’s trying to crawl inside her skin. Jade’s hands slide up Tori’s sides, her thumbs grazing just beneath the band of Tori's bra, and she feels Tori shiver despite the oppressive heat.
One of Jade’s hands splays across Tori’s stomach, fingers spread wide, and she can feel Tori’s abs contracting with each breath, with each movement. Her other hand grips Tori’s hip, guiding her movements, and god, Tori is so hot—her skin is blazing where Jade touches her, slick with sweat, and every point of contact feels like it’s searing into Jade’s palms.
Tori’s hand slides from Jade’s hair to the back of her neck, her nails scraping lightly against Jade’s skin, and Jade groans into her ear. She can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the music but Tori must feel it because her hips roll back harder, grinding against Jade with purpose, and Jade’s hand on her stomach slides lower, her fingers tracing just below the waistband of Tori’s underwear.
“Jade,” Tori says, and it’s not a question or a statement, it’s just Jade’s name torn from her throat, and hearing it like that makes something snap in Jade’s chest.
Her lips press against the hinge of Tori’s jaw, not quite a kiss but close enough that she can feel Tori’s pulse jumping there, fast and wild. Her hand slides from Tori’s stomach to her hip and then to her thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle there, and Tori makes this desperate sound that goes straight through Jade like lightning. She’s lost to this now—to the way Tori feels against her, to the slickness between her legs, to the relentless throb of arousal.
The song is reaching its climax, everything getting faster and louder, and the lead singer is screaming something into the mic that the crowd echoes back. The lights are flashing so fast now they’re almost blinding, and in the strobing chaos Jade sees glimpses of Tori’s profile—her eyes closed, her lips parted, her throat working as she swallows hard.
Then Tori turns around.
It happens in a heartbeat—she spins in Jade’s arms, her hands immediately finding Jade’s face, her hips still moving to the music but facing Jade now. They’re pressed front to front, Jade’s hands automatically sliding to Tori’s lower back to keep her close, and suddenly Jade can see her properly. Can see the way her pupils are blown wide, the way her chest is heaving, the way the glitter on her cheekbones shines with every pulse of color. Can see the way she’s looking at Jade like she’s starving.
They’re still dancing—or trying to, bodies moving together in the packed crowd, but it’s different now. More intense. Jade’s hands slide lower, cupping the curve of Tori’s ass through her shorts, and Tori’s hips roll forward against her, their bodies flush from chest to thigh. Tori’s hands are in Jade’s hair again, gripping tight, and they’re breathing the same air, their faces so close that Jade can feel every exhale against her lips. The pressure of their bodies together is delicious torture, aching and empty and desperate for more than just grinding friction.
The music is building, building, building—the whole song rushing toward its apex, the crowd screaming, the drums thundering—and Jade can feel it in her bones, can feel the anticipation crackling through the entire venue like they’re all about to explode.
Tori’s eyes drop to Jade’s lips.
The song hits its peak—guitars screaming, drums crashing, the lead singer holding a note that seems to go on forever—and Tori surges forward and kisses her.
It’s desperate and messy and absolutely perfect. Tori’s hands are cupping Jade’s face, her fingers sliding around to the back of Jade’s neck, and Jade is kissing her back like she’s drowning, like Tori is air. Their mouths are crashing together, all tongue and teeth and gasping breaths, and Jade’s hands tighten on Tori’s ass, pulling her impossibly closer. She can feel Tori’s breasts pressed against hers, can feel both their hearts racing, can feel the heat radiating between them. Tori makes this sound into her mouth—half moan, half gasp—and Jade swallows it, one hand sliding up Tori’s back under her tank top, nails dragging against bare skin, while the other comes up to circle around Tori’s neck. She can feel Tori’s pulse racing under her palm, can feel the vibration when Tori moans again, and it makes Jade kiss her harder, deeper.
And then the world explodes.
Pyro erupts from the stage—massive columns of flame shooting up, the heat of them reaching even into the crowd, and the sound is enormous, deafening. Gold and red sparks rain down, and for a moment everything is fire and light and sound, and Jade and Tori are kissing in the middle of it all like they’re the ones igniting.
The flames shoot up again, again, again, timed with the final crashing chords of the song, and the entire venue is screaming, and Jade’s hands are in Tori’s hair now, and they’re both gasping into each other’s mouths, and the heat from the pyro mixes with the heat of their bodies and Jade can’t tell where she ends and Tori begins.
The song crashes to its finale, one last enormous burst of pyro making everyone in the crowd scream, and then it’s over. The last chord rings out, the flames die, and the stage lights shift to something softer—purple and gold washing over the crowd as everyone erupts into cheers and applause.
Jade and Tori break apart, both breathing hard, and reality comes rushing back. They’re in a crowd of hundreds of people, they’re sweaty and disheveled, and they just kissed like the world was ending. Tori’s looking at her with wide eyes, her lips swollen and slick, her chest heaving. She looks wrecked. She looks gorgeous. She looks like Jade wants to drag her out of this venue and finish what they started.
The house lights come up and the spell breaks a little. The harsh fluorescent lighting makes everything too real, too bright. Jade blinks against it, suddenly aware of how sweaty she is, how her shirt is sticking to her back, how her heart is still racing.
“We should find the others,” Tori says, her fingers entangling with Jade’s.
“Yeah,” Jade agrees, but she doesn’t let go.
They stand there for another moment before Tori finally steps away. Jade’s hands are still warm from where Tori had been holding it, and she flexes her fingers, trying to hold onto the sensation.
They find the group near the merch table—Cat is trying to convince Robbie to buy her a t-shirt, Beck is on his phone, and André is talking to some guy who might be the guitarist he knows. When Beck spots them, his eyes do a quick scan over both of them, lingering for a moment on what must be Jade’s smudged lipstick, and something knowing flickers across his face. But he doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows slightly at Jade.
Heat creeps up Jade’s neck under his knowing gaze. She drags her thumb across her bottom lip, trying to wipe away the evidence, but she can feel how thoroughly wrecked her lipstick is—smeared at the corners, probably half on Tori’s mouth instead of her own. The dark stain comes away on her thumb and she wipes it on her skirt, refusing to look embarrassed even as warmth continues to flood her cheeks.
André’s gaze lands on Tori, taking in her disheveled appearance with that too-observant look he gets sometimes, but he just smiles slightly and goes back to his conversation.
“There you are!” Cat bounces over, grabbing Tori’s arm. “We lost you forever ago! Did you see when they did the fire thing? It was so cool!”
“Yeah,” Tori says, and her voice is rough. “We saw it.”
“You look like you had fun,” Robbie observes, gesturing vaguely at Tori’s disaster of hair. “Your hair is insane.”
Tori laughs and tries to smooth it down. “It’s hot in here. And crowded.”
“You guys enjoy the show?” Beck asks, and there’s something in his tone that makes Jade shoot him a look, but his expression is innocent.
“It was good,” Jade says carefully. “André’s friend can actually play.”
“Told you,” Andre says, grinning. “They’re going places.” He glances between Jade and Tori again, and Jade can see him filing away observations, but mercifully he doesn’t comment. “I’m starving. Inside-Out Burger?”
“Yes,” Cat says immediately. “Jungle fries.”
They make their way out of the venue into the cool night air, and Jade breathes in deep, trying to clear her head. The temperature difference is shocking after the heat of the venue, and she can feel the sweat cooling on her skin, making her shiver slightly.
The drive to Inside-Out Burger is loud and chaotic—everyone crammed into Beck’s car, talking over each other about the show, Cat singing one of the songs, André arguing with Robbie about the setlist. Jade and Tori end up in the back, pressed together by necessity, and Tori’s thigh is warm against Jade’s, her shoulder pressing into Jade’s arm.
Neither of them says much.
At Inside-Out Burger, they crowd into a booth—Cat, Robbie, and Beck on one side, and André, Jade, and Tori squeezed together on the other side. The fluorescent lights are brutal after the darkness of the venue, making everyone look washed out and tired, but Jade is hyperaware of everywhere Tori is touching her. Their knees keep bumping under the table. Tori’s hand brushing Jade’s when she passes the ketchup.
The group is rowdy, reliving the show, arguing about which songs were best, laughing too loud. André is doing an impression of the lead singer that has Cat in tears, and Robbie is showing Beck something on his phone.
Jade and Tori are quieter, picking at their fries, stealing glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking. Every time their eyes meet, Jade feels that same jolt of electricity from earlier, that same sense of standing on the edge of something enormous.
“You okay?” Tori murmurs at one point, low enough that only Jade can hear under the group’s chatter.
“Yeah,” Jade says, and she is. Nervous, maybe. Terrified, definitely. But okay. “You?”
“Yeah.” Tori’s smile is small, private. Her pinky brushes against Jade’s. “Really okay.”
Eventually someone suggests calling it a night—it’s late, they’ve all sobered up, and Cat has to be up early for some animal shelter volunteer thing. They pile out of the restaurant into the parking lot, the night air cool and smelling like gasoline and fryer grease.
When they arrive back at Beck’s RV, there’s the usual chaos of everyone gathering their stuff—Cat looking for her phone charger, Robbie trying to remember where he left his jacket, André scrolling through the photos he took during the show and showing them to anyone who will look.
“You ready to head out, Tori?” André asks eventually, jingling his keys. “I can drop you on my way.”
Jade’s heart does something complicated in her chest. She watches Tori from across the RV, watches her pause in the middle of gathering her things—her phone, her little crossbody purse—and there’s this moment of hesitation. Just a flicker, but Jade catches it. Tori’s eyes find hers across the space between them, and even in the dim glow of the string lights Jade can see the question there.
“Actually,” Jade says, and her voice comes out steadier than she feels, “I can take her.”
André turns to look at her, one eyebrow raising slightly.
“Her house is on the way to mine anyway,” Jade continues, twisting her hands together to keep them from shaking. “You’d just be going in the opposite direction and it’s already late.”
There’s a beat of silence. André’s gaze shifts between them, and Jade can see that knowing look settle on his face again, the one he’s been giving them all night, but his expression softens into something almost affectionate.
He turns to Tori, and his voice is gentle when he asks, “That cool with you?”
"Yeah, that sounds good," Tori nods. She looks across the RV, her gaze locking with Jade's. "Thanks, Jade."
The way she says it—soft and certain, like she’s answering a different question entirely—makes heat spread through Jade’s chest.
If Beck notices anything, he doesn’t comment. He’s helping Cat find her phone charger, but when he straightens up and catches Jade’s eye, he gives her one of those small, understanding smiles—the kind that says I see you, I know you, go get her. It makes Jade’s throat tight.
“Night, guys!” Cat calls, bouncing over to give everyone hugs. When she gets to Jade, she squeezes tight and whispers, “Have fun,” in a singsong voice that makes Jade pull back and glare at her. But Cat just grins, completely unrepentant, and moves on to tackle Tori with equal enthusiasm. “That was so fun! We should do this again!”
There’s a round of hugs and see-you-laters, André climbing into his car, Beck ushering Robbie and Cat toward hers with promises to text when they get home safely. Engines start, tail lights flicker on, and one by one everyone pulls away down the street until it’s just Jade and Tori standing in the orange glow of the streetlight next to Jade’s car.
The silence feels enormous. Loud, somehow, despite the quiet.
Jade digs her keys out of her pocket, and the jingle of them seems too loud in the still night air. “Ready?” she asks, and her voice comes out quieter than intended.
“Yeah,” Tori says.
They get in without speaking. Jade starts the engine, and the radio comes on automatically—some late-night station playing something soft and forgettable—but she reaches over and turns it off. The silence that fills the car feels heavy, charged with everything they haven’t said yet.
Jade pulls away from Beck’s place and onto the familiar streets that wind up into the Hollywood Hills. She knows this route by heart—has driven Tori home enough times over the years that she could probably do it with her eyes closed. Left at the stop sign, right at the next intersection, following the road as it curves up into the hills where the houses get bigger and the lots get more spread out.
Her hands feel unsteady on the wheel. She’s hyperaware of everything—the sound of their breathing in the quiet car, the way Tori’s shifted slightly in the passenger seat to face her, the warmth still radiating from Tori’s body despite the cool night air coming through the vents. Jade can smell her perfume, that citrus-vanilla scent, mixing with the lingering smell of the venue—smoke and sweat and beer.
When they reach the turn that would take them toward Tori’s house, Jade’s hands keep the wheel straight. The road continues up instead, climbing higher into the hills, and Jade can feel Tori watching her in the darkness. Can feel the exact moment Tori realizes where they’re headed.
“The lookout’s up this way,” Tori says quietly after a moment.
Jade’s throat feels tight. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “I know.”
“Just checking.”
Two simple words, but the way Tori says them makes Jade’s heart hammer against her ribs. There’s no surprise in her voice. No confusion. Just… acceptance. Understanding. Want.
Jade risks a glance over, and Tori is looking at her with an expression that makes her stomach flip—soft and dark and full of something that looks like anticipation.
“I wasn’t ready to drop you off yet,” Jade admits, her voice rougher than intended. The words feel like a confession. “I didn’t want— I mean, I just—”
“Jade.” Tori’s voice is gentle, and when Jade looks over again, Tori’s smiling and it makes Jade’s cheeks warm. “It’s okay. I wasn’t ready either.”
The relief that floods through Jade makes her hands shake slightly on the wheel. She focuses on the road, on navigating the last few curves before the lookout comes into view.
It’s nothing fancy—just a widening in the road where the shoulder expands into a small dirt clearing, marked by a bent metal guardrail and a faded sign warning people to stay back from the edge. During the day, it’s full of tourists taking pictures of the view. But at this hour—past midnight now, slipping into early morning—it’s deserted.
Jade pulls in and puts the car in park. She kills the engine, and suddenly the silence is deafening. No music, no crowd, no engine rumble. Just the distant hum of the city below—a low, constant white noise of traffic and life—and the tick of the cooling engine, and the sound of their breathing.
They sit there for a moment, neither moving. Jade’s hands twisting in her lap as she tries to relax the muscles. She can feel Tori watching her, can feel the weight of her gaze like a physical touch.
“So…” Tori says finally, and there’s a nervous laugh threaded through her voice. “Dancing with you tonight was… I mean, that was…”
Jade turns to look at her. In the darkness of the car, lit only by the ambient glow of the city below and the distant streetlight behind them, Tori looks ethereal. The gold glitter on her cheekbones still catches the faint light, and her hair is still messy, falling in tangled waves around her shoulders. Her lips are still slightly swollen.
“Yeah,” Jade manages. Her mouth feels dry. “It was.”
“I didn’t think the night was going to end up like that.” Tori’s voice drops lower, and she shifts in her seat, angling her body more toward Jade. “Like… us. Like that.”
“No,” Jade agrees. Her heart is hammering so hard she’s sure Tori can hear it in the quiet car. “Me neither.”
“But I’m glad it did.” Tori’s looking at her with an intensity that makes Jade forget how to breathe. “I’ve been wanting to— I mean, all summer I’ve been trying to figure out if you felt it too, or if I was just reading into things, making something out of nothing, but—”
“I felt it,” Jade interrupts, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. “I’ve felt it. I feel it. Every time you touch me, every time you look at me like—like you are right now.”
The air between them feels charged, electric. Dangerous. Jade’s eyes drop to Tori’s lips—still slightly swollen from earlier, still glossy in the faint light—and when she looks back up, Tori’s doing the same thing. Looking at her mouth like she’s starving, like she’s been holding herself back for too long and is finally, finally letting herself want.
“Can I kiss you again?” Jade asks quietly.
Tori’s answer comes out as barely more than a whisper. “Please.”
They lean across the center console at the same time, and their mouths crash together. It’s different from the venue—without the chaos of the crowd pressing them together, without the deafening music covering the sounds they make, without the excuse of being swept up in the moment. This is deliberate. This is choice. And somehow that makes it more intense.
Tori’s hand comes up to cup Jade’s face, her thumb tracing along Jade’s cheekbone, and Jade makes a sound into her mouth that would be embarrassing if she had any capacity left to care. Her own hand tangles in Tori’s hair, and she angles Tori’s head to deepen the kiss, her tongue sliding against Tori’s in a way that makes them both gasp.
The center console is digging into Jade’s hip, hard plastic pressing uncomfortably against her side, but she doesn’t care. She just needs to be closer, needs more, needs to eliminate every inch of space between them. She leans further across, trying to get the angle right, trying to press more of herself against Tori, but the console is in the way and it’s not enough—it’s nowhere near enough. She pulls back just far enough to breathe, and the loss of contact feels almost painful.
“This is—” Tori starts, her voice wrecked, “I can’t—”
Jade fumbles with her seatbelt, the click of it releasing obscenely loud in the quiet car, and then she’s climbing over the center console. It’s awkward—her knee bangs against the gear shift hard enough to hurt, and her skirt catches on something, and she has to brace one hand on the dashboard to keep from falling—but then Tori’s hands are on her waist, guiding her, helping her, and Jade settles into her lap with a breathless sound that’s half laugh, half moan.
She straddles Tori’s thighs, her knees pressing into the seat on either side of Tori’s hips, and the position puts them face to face. Chest to chest. Jade can feel every breath Tori takes, can see the way her pupils are blown wide, can smell her perfume.
"Hey," Tori says, and her voice is soft and rough and full of want, and her hands are still on Jade's waist, thumbs tracing small circles against the bare skin where Jade's shirt has ridden up.
"Hey yourself," Jade breathes back, and then she's kissing her again.
It’s better like this. So much better. Jade’s hands frame Tori’s face, then slide back into her hair, gripping tight, and Tori gasps into her mouth. The sound goes straight through Jade, settles low in her stomach as heat and want and need. Her skirt has ridden up around her hips with the position, bunched up and out of the way, and when she shifts slightly—trying to get more comfortable, trying to get closer—the movement presses her down into Tori’s lap and the friction makes her gasp.
The rough denim of Tori’s jean shorts drags against her through just the thin barrier of her underwear, and the sensation makes Jade’s head spin. She does it again, deliberately this time, rolling her hips forward, and the pressure hits exactly right and makes her moan into Tori’s mouth.
“Fuck,” Tori breathes against her lips, her hands tightening on Jade’s waist, fingers digging in hard enough that Jade knows she’ll have marks tomorrow. The thought makes her clench, makes her grind down harder.
Tori’s hands slide from her waist down to her hips, gripping tight, and then they’re guiding Jade’s movements—helping her find a rhythm, helping her rock against Tori’s lap in a way that has Jade reeling. The denim is rough and perfect, and Jade can feel herself getting wetter with each roll of her hips, can feel the fabric of her soaked underwear, can feel heat building in her core like a wildfire.
Her hands are everywhere—tangling in Tori’s hair, gripping her shoulders, sliding down to her neck where she can feel Tori’s pulse hammering against her palm. She kisses Tori desperately, all tongue and teeth and gasping breaths, swallowing the small sounds Tori makes every time Jade grinds down particularly hard.
“Jade,” Tori moans, and just hearing her name like that—desperate and needy and full of want—makes Jade’s hips stutter in their rhythm.
One of Tori’s hands slides from Jade’s hip to her thigh, palm hot against bare skin, and Jade gasps at the contact. Tori’s fingers trace patterns on her skin—soft touches that feel like fire, featherlight strokes that make Jade’s legs tremble. Her hand moves higher, sliding along the outside of Jade’s thigh and then around to the inside, and Jade’s breath catches in her throat.
“Is this okay?” Tori asks, her voice low and rough, her fingers dancing along Jade’s inner thigh.
“Yes,” Jade breathes. “Fuck. Yes, keep going.”
Tori’s fingers trace higher, and then they pause. Even through the haze of want clouding her brain, Jade feels the exact moment Tori realizes—feels the moment Tori’s fingers brush against the dampness on her inner thigh, feels the way Tori’s breath catches.
Tori pulls back just enough to look at Jade, and her eyes are so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown wide with want. Her fingers trace along the wet skin of Jade’s inner thigh, and when she speaks, her voice is wrecked. “You’re already so wet.” It’s not quite a question, more like wonder, like disbelief. “I can feel it on your thigh.”
Jade’s hips roll forward involuntarily, grinding down into Tori’s lap, chasing friction. “I’ve been wet all night,” she admits, and the words come out broken, desperate. “Since the concert. Since you started dancing against me. Since you put your hands on me and I could feel—” She cuts herself off with a moan as she grinds down again, as the rough denim drags against her in exactly the right way.
“Fuck,” Tori groans, and her hand slides higher up Jade’s inner thigh, her fingers tracing through the wetness there. “That’s so fucking hot. You’re so—” Her fingers reach the edge of Jade’s underwear, and she pauses there, her hand trembling slightly. She looks up at Jade, and there’s a question in her eyes that makes Jade’s heart hammer even harder. “Can I— Is it okay if I—”
“Mhmmm,” Jade interrupts, her hands tightening in Tori’s hair. “Fuck me. Please, Tori, I need—”
Tori’s fingers slip under the edge of her underwear, and the first brush of skin against skin makes Jade cry out, her hips rolling forward to meet Tori’s touch, chasing the pleasure. Tori’s fingers slide through wetness, exploring, and Jade is shaking, her thighs trembling on either side of Tori’s hips.
“Don’t stop,” Jade manages, lifting her head to kiss Tori again, messy and desperate.
Tori’s fingers move with more confidence now, finding a rhythm that has Jade gasping into her mouth, grinding down against her hand. The car windows are starting to fog from their breathing, condensation blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and white. Jade’s hands grip Tori’s shoulders, her neck, anywhere she can reach, needing to anchor herself as pleasure builds hot and insistent in her core.
“You feel so good,” Tori murmurs against Jade’s lips, and the words combined with the movement of her fingers makes Jade clench around nothing, makes her desperate for more.
“Inside,” Jade gasps, her hips rolling against Tori’s hand. “Please, Tori, I need—” Her words break off into a moan as Tori’s fingers circle but don’t press in, teasing. “Inside me, please—”
Two of Tori’s fingers slide inside her and Jade’s entire body arches, a broken sound tearing from her throat. The stretch, the fullness, the way Tori curves her fingers just right—it’s everything Jade has been aching for all night, and she rocks down against Tori’s hand, desperate and needy.
“Fuck, Jade,” Tori breathes, her free hand gripping Jade’s hip hard enough to bruise. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”
Jade responds by sliding her hands down Tori’s body, fingers finding the button of her shorts and working it open with shaking hands. She gets the zipper down and her hand slips beneath denim and cotton, and when she touches Tori—finds her slick and hot—Tori moans into her mouth.
“I’ve been wanting to feel you all night,” Jade murmurs against Tori’s lips, her fingers sliding through wetness. “Wanting to know if you were as turned on as I was, if you wanted this as badly.”
“God, yes,” Tori gasps, her hips rolling up into Jade’s touch. “I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been going crazy all summer. Every time you looked at me, every time you touched me, I wanted—” Her words dissolve into a moan as Jade’s fingers find exactly where she needs them.
Tori’s fingers curl inside Jade in response, and Jade’s hand on Tori stutters, her other hand gripping Tori’s shoulder for balance as pleasure spirals through her. She wants to match the rhythm with her own hand, wants to give Tori what she’s getting, but it’s so hard to focus when Tori is touching her like this—like she knows exactly what Jade needs, like she’s been thinking about this as much as Jade has.
But they find a rhythm together, hands moving, bodies rocking, mouths meeting in increasingly desperate kisses. The car is too small, the angle is awkward, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except this.
The city lights spread out below them, oblivious and endless, and Jade stops thinking about anything except Tori’s hands and Tori’s mouth and Tori’s everything and the way they’re finally, finally letting themselves have this.